THE    MAN    WHO 
WORKED  FOR  COLLISTER 

MARY    TRACY    EARLE 


BOSTON 
COPELAND    AND    DAY 


M  DCCC  XCVIII 


PREFACE 

IN  preparing  this  little  volume  it  is  one  of 
my  pleasures  to  be  able  to  thank  "The 
Century,"  "  McClure's  Magazine,"  "The  Out 
look,"  "  Munsey's,"  "The  Monthly  Illustrator 
Publishing  Company,"  "  Godey's  Magazine," 
"Short  Stories,"  "  Scribner's,"  and  "Harper's 
Monthly,"  not  only  for  the  privilege  of  using 
stories  which  they  have  printed,  but  for  the 
many  other  kindnesses,  courtesies,  and  en 
couragements  which  editors  and  publishers 
know  so  well  how  to  extend  to  writers.  I 
am  glad,  also,  to  explain  that  two  of  these 
tales,  "  The  Race  of  the  Little  Ships  "  and 
"  The  Fig-Trees  of  Old  Jourde,"  were  written 
in  collaboration  with  my  cousin,  Marguerite 
Tracy.  I  include  them  here  partly  because 
they  are  of  the  South,  like  most  of  the  other 
stories,  and  partly  because  in  acknowledging 
their  joint  authorship  I  can  connect  my 


PREFACE 

cousin's  name  with  the  stories  which  I  call 
my  own,  but  which  would  never  have  been 
written  without  her  interest  and  criticism. 
She  may  not  thank  me  for  passing  the  re 
sponsibility  on  in  this  way,  but  it  is  really 
hers. 

M.    T.    E. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE   MAN  WHO  WORKED  FOR  COLLISTER  i 

THE   MASK   OF  THE  LOST  SOUL  20 

THE  RACE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SHIPS  39 

THE  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES  53 

THE  MOUNTAIN  GOLD  7 1 

THE  ALARM   BELL  92 

THE  HILDRETHS'   WEDDING— DAY  1 1 1 

THE  FIG— TREES  OF  OLD  JOURDE  126 

THE  CAPTOR  OF  OLD  PONTOMOC  151 

A  LITTLE  MOUNTAIN  MAID  183 

THE  GREAT  STATE  OF  JOHNSING  197 

AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS  215 

THE  LAW  AND  THE  LONG  BONE  238 

Six  BRAVE  SOLDIERS  256 

MR.   WILLIE'S  WEDDING— VEIL  268 


THE    MAN    WHO    WORKED    FOR 
COLLISTER 

T)ERHAPS  the  loneliest  spot  in  all  the 
JL  pine-woods  was  the  big  Collister  farm. 
Its  buildings  were  not  huddled  in  the  centre 
of  it,  where  they  could  keep  one  another  in 
countenance,  but  each  stood  by  itself,  facing 
the  desolate  stretches  of  gray  sand  and  pine 
stumps  in  its  own  way.  Near  each  a  few 
uncut  pine  trees  kept  guard,  presumably  for 
shade,  but  really  sending  their  straggling 
shadows  far  beyond  the  mark.  Many  a 
Northern  heart  had  ached  from  watching 
them,  they  were  so  tall  and  isolate ;  for, 
having  been  forest-bred,  they  had  a  sad  and 
detached  expression  when  they  stood  alone  or 
in  groups,  just  like  the  Northern  faces  when 
they  met  the  still  distances  of  the  South. 

In  Collister's  day  he  and  the  man  who 
worked  for  him  were  the  only  strangers  who 
had  need  to  watch  the  pines.  A  land-im 
provement  company  had  opened  up  the  farm, 
but  after  sinking  all  its  money  in  the  insatiable 
depths  of  sandy  soil,  where  the  Lord,  who 


2  COLLISTER'S   MAN 

knew  best,  had  planted  pine  trees,  the  great 
bustling  company  made  an  assignment  of  its 
stumpy  fields,  and  somewhat  later  the  farm 
passed  into  the  hands  of  Collister.  Who 
Collister  was,  and  where  he  came  from,  were 
variously  related  far  and  wide  through  the 
piney  woods ;  for  he  was  one  of  those  people 
whose  lives  are  an  odd  blending  of  reclusion 
and  notoriety.  He  kept  up  the  little  store  on 
the  farm ;  and,  though  it  was  usually  his  man 
who  came  up  from  the  fields  when  any  one 
stood  at  the  closed  store  and  shouted,  its 
trade  was  largely  augmented  by  the  hope  of 
seeing  Collister. 

The  sunken  money  of  the  land  company 
must  have  enriched  the  soil,  for  the  farm 
prospered  as  well  as  the  store,  yielding  un- 
precedentedly  in  such  patches  as  the  two 
men  chose  to  cultivate.  In  midsummer  the 
schooner-captains,  in  their  loose  red  shirts, 
came  panting  up  two  sunburned  miles  from 
the  bayou  to  chaffer  with  Collister  or  his  man 
over  the  price  of  watermelons ;  and  when 
their  schooners  were  loaded,  the  land  breeze 
which  carried  the  cool  green  freight  through 
bayou  and  bay  out  to  the  long  reaches  of  the 
sound,  where  the  sea  wind  took  the  burden 
on,  sent  abroad  not  only  schooner  and  cargo 
and  men,  but  countless  strange  reports  of  the 
ways  and  doings  of  Collister.  At  least  one 


TALES  3 

of  these  bulletins  never  changed.  Year  after 
year,  when  fall  came,  and  he  had  added  the 
season's  proceeds  to  his  accumulating  wealth, 
—  when  even  the  peanuts  had  been  dug,  and 
the  scent  of  their  roasting  spread  through 
the  piney  woods  on  the  fresh  air  of  the  winter 
evenings,  making  an  appetizing  advertisement 
for  the  store,  —  it  was  whispered  through  the 
country,  and  far  out  on  the  gulf,  that  Collister 
said  he  would  marry  any  girl  who  could  make 
good  bread  —  light  bread.  That  settled  at 
least  one  question :  Collister  came  from  the 
North.  The  man  who  worked  for  him  was 
thought  to  have  come  from  the  same  place ; 
but  though  he  did  the  cooking,  his  skill  must 
have  left  something  to  be  desired,  and  after 
current  gossip  had  risked  all  its  surmises  on 
the  likelihood  of  Collister's  finding  a  wife 
under  the  condition  imposed,  it  usually  added 
that  if  Collister  married,  the  man  who  worked 
for  him  would  take  it  as  a  slight,  and  leave. 

An  old  county  road  led  through  the  big 
farm,  and  along  it  the  country  people  passed 
in  surprising  numbers  and  frequency  for  so 
sparsely  settled  a  region.  They  took  their 
way  leisurely,  and  if  they  could  not  afford  a 
five-cent  purchase  at  the  store  gave  plenty 
of  time  to  staring  right  and  left  behind  the 
stumps,  in  a  cheerful  determination  to  see 
something  worth  remembrance.  One  day, 


4  COLLISTER'S   MAN 

when  the  store  chanced  to  be  standing  open, 
one  of  these  passers  walked  up  to  the  thresh 
old  and  stood  for  a  while  looking  in.  The 
room  was  small  and  dingy,  lighted  only  by 
the  opening  of  the  door,  and  crammed  with 
boxes,  leaky  barrels,  farm  produce,  and  side- 
meat.  One  corner  had  been  arranged  with 
calicoes  and  ribbons  and  threads ;  but  though 
the  inspector  was  a  young  and  pretty  girl  in 
the  most  dingy  of  cotton  gowns,  she  had 
scarcely  a  thought  for  that  corner ;  she  was 
staring  at  a  man  who  was  so  hard  at  work 
rearranging  the  boxes  and  barrels  that  he  did 
not  notice  her  shadow  at  his  elbow.  Finally 
he  glanced  up  of  his  own  accord. 

"  Hello,"  he  said,  coming  forward ;  "  do 
you  want  to  buy  something?  Why  didn't 
you  sing  out?  " 

For  a  little  while  longer  the  girl  stared  at 
him  as  steadily  as  if  he  had  not  moved.  Most 
of  the  people  who  live  in  the  pine  woods  come 
to  have  a  ragged  look,  but  this  was  the  rag- 
gedest  person  she  had  ever  seen.  He  was 
as  ragged  as  a  bunch  of  pine  needles ;  yet  he 
had  the  same  clean  and  wholesome  look,  and 
his  face  was  pleasant. 

"  Are  you  the  man  that  works  for  Col- 
lister?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

The   girl  looked  him   up  and  down  again 


\ 


TALES  5 

with  innocent  curiosity.  "  How  much  does 
he  give  you?"  she  asked. 

"  Nothing  but  my  board  and  clothes,"  the 
man  answered,  and  smiled.  He  did  not  seem 
to  find  it  hard  work  to  stand  still  and  watch 
her  while  her  black  eyes  swiftly  catalogued 
each  rag.  When  they  reached  his  bare  brown 
feet  she  laughed. 

"  Then  I  think  he  had  ought  to  dress  you 
better,  an'  give  you  some  shoes,"  she  said. 

"  He  does  —  winters,"  the  man  answered 
calmly. 

She  gave  an  impatient  shake  of  her  sun- 
bonnet.  "  That  isn't  the  thing  — just  to  keep 
you  all  warm,"  she  explained.  "A  man  like 
Mr.  Collister  had  ought  to  keep  you  looking 
'ristocratic." 

The  man  who  worked  for  Collister  grinned. 
"  Not  very  much  in  Collister's  line,"  he  said. 
"  We  might  get  mixed  up  if  I  was  too 
dressy."  He  pulled  a  cracker-box  forward, 
and  dusted  it.  "  If  you  ain't  in  a  hurry, 
you'd  better  come  inside  and  take  a  seat," 
he  added. 

The  girl  sank  to  the  doorstep  instead, 
taking  off  her  bonnet.  Its  slats  folded  to 
gether  as  she  dropped  it  into  her  lap,  and  she 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  loosening  some  crushed 
tresses  of  hair  from  her  forehead.  She  seemed 
to  be  settling  down  for  a  comfortable  inqui- 


6  COLLISTER'S   MAN 

sition.  "  What  kind  of  clothes  does  Mr.  Col- 
lister  wear?  "  she  began. 

The  man  drew  the  cracker-box  up  near  the 
doorway,  and  sat  down.  "  Dressy,"  he  said ; 
"'bout  like  mine." 

The  girl  gave  him  a  look  which  dared  to 
say,  "  I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Honest  truth,"  the  man  nodded.  "  Would 
you  like  to  have  me  call  him  up  from  the 
field,  and  show  him  to  you  ?  " 

Not  to  assent  would  have  seemed  as  if  she 
were  daunted,  and  yet  the  girl  had  many  more 
questions  to  ask  about  Collister.  "  Pretty 
soon,"  she  said.  "  I  suppose  if  you  don't  call 
him,  he'll  be  coming  for  you.  They  say  he 
works  you  mighty  hard." 

It  is  never  pleasant  to  be  spoken  of  as 
something  entirely  subject  to  another  per 
son's  will.  A  slow  flush  spread  over  the 
man's  face,  but  he  answered  loyally,  "  Col- 
lister  may  be  mean  to  some  folks,  but  he's 
always  been  mighty  good  to  me."  He  smiled 
as  he  looked  off  from  stump  to  stump  across 
the  clearing  to  the  far  rim  of  the  forest.  The 
stumps  seemed  to  be  running  after  one 
another,  and  gathering  in  groups  to  whisper 
secrets.  "You've  got  to  remember  that  this 
is  a  God-forsaken  hole  for  anybody  to  be 
stuck  in,"  he  said ;  "  'tain't  in  humanity  for 
him  to  keep  his  soul  as  white  as  natural, 


TALES  7 

more'n  his  skin ;  but  there's  this  to  be  said 
for  Collister :  he's  always  good  to  me." 

"  I'm  right  glad  of  that,"  the  girl  said. 
She  too  was  looking  out  at  the  loneliness,  and 
a  little  of  it  was  reflected  on  her  face.  "  You- 
all  must  think  a  heap  of  him,"  she  added 
wistfully. 

"You  can  just  bet  on  that,"  he  declared. 
"  I've  done  him  a  heap  of  mean  turns,  too ; 
but  they  was  always  done  'cause  I  didn't 
know  any  better,  so  he  don't  hold  me  any 
grudge." 

"  Wouldn't  he  mind  if  he  knew  you  were 
a-losing  time  by  sitting  here  talking  to  me?  " 
she  asked. 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "  No,"  he  an 
swered  cheerfully;  "  he  wouldn't  care  —  not 
for  me.  There  isn't  anybody  else  he  would 
favor  like  that,  but  he  makes  it  a  point  to 
accommodate  me." 

The  girl  gave  her  head  a  little  turn.  "  Do 
you  think  he  would  accommodate  me?  "  she 
asked. 

He  looked  her  over  as  critically  as  she  had 
first  looked  at  him.  "  It's  a  dangerous  busi 
ness  answering  for  Collister,"  he  ventured ; 
"  but  maybe  if  /  asked  him  to,  he  would." 

"Well,  you  are  bigoty,"  she  asserted.  "  I 
can't  noways  see  what  there  is  betwixt  you. 
Why,  they  say  that  whilst  you're  working  he 


8  COLLISTER'S   MAN 

comes  out  in  the  field,  an*  bosses  you  under 
a'  umbrelly ;  an  " —  a  laugh  carried  her  words 
along  like  leaves  on  dancing  water  —  "  an' 
that  he  keeps  a  stool  stropped  to  his  back, 
ready  to  set  down  on  whenever  he  pleases. 
Is  it  true  —  '  hones'  truth'  ?  " 

A  great  mirth  shook  Collister's  man  from 
head  to  foot.  "  Such  a  figure  —  such  a  figure 
as  the  old  boy  cuts  !  "  he  gasped.  "  Some 
times  I  ask  him  if  he'll  keep  his  stool  strapped 
on  when  he  goes  a-courting;  and  he  says 
maybe  so  —  it'll  be  so  handy  to  hitch  along 
closer  to  the  young  lady."  Without  thinking, 
he  illustrated  with  the  cracker-box  as  he 
spoke.  "  And  as  for  the  umbrella,  I  certainly 
ain't  the  one  to  object  to  that ;  for,  you  see, 
when  the  sun's  right  hot  he  holds  it  over 
me." 

He  leaned  half  forward  as  he  spoke,  smil 
ing  at  her.  It  is  hard  to  tell  exactly  when 
a  new  acquaintance  ceases  to  be  a  stranger ; 
but  as  the  girl  on  the  doorstep  smiled  in 
answer  she  was  unexpectedly  aware  that  the 
shrewd,  kindly,  furrowed  face  of  this  young 
man  who  worked  for  Collister  was  something 
which  she  had  known  for  a  long,  long  time. 
It  seemed  as  familiar  as  the  scent  of  pine 
needles  and  myrtle,  or  as  the  shafts  of  blue, 
smoke-stained  sunlight  between  the  brown 
trunks  of  the  pine  trees  in  the  fall,  or  as  the 


TALES  9 

feathery  outline  of  green  pine-tops  against 
the  dreamy  intensity  of  a  Southern  sky ;  and 
when  all  this  has  been  said  of  a  girl  who  lives 
in  the  "  pineys  "  there  is  no  necessity  for  say 
ing  more.  She  gave  a  little  nervous  laugh. 

The  man  began  talking  again.  "  It  ain't 
such  foolery  as  you  would  think,  his  wearing 
the  stool  and  carrying  the  umbrella,"  he  said. 
"  This  is  the  way  he  reasons  it  out,  he  says. 
In  the  first  place  there's  the  sun ;  that's  a 
pretty  good  reason.  But  what  started  it  was 
a  blazing  day  up  North,  when  he  was  hustling 
four  deals  at  once ;  a  man  would  need  a  head 
the  size  of  a  barrel  to  keep  that  sort  of  thing 
going  for  long,  and  Collister  has  just  an  ordi 
nary  head  no  bigger  than  mine.  Well,  the 
upshot  of  it  was  that  he  had  a  sunstroke, 
and  was  laid  up  a  month ;  and  then  he  reck 
oned  up  the  day's  business,  and  what  he'd 
gained  on  one  deal  he'd  lost  on  another,  so 
that  he  came  out  even  to  a  cent — queer, 
wasn't  it?  —  with  just  the  experience  of  a 
sunstroke  to  add  to  his  stock  in  trade.  Then 
he  bought  himself  an  umbrella  and  a  stool, 
and  began  to  take  life  fair  and  easy.  Easy 
going  is  my  way  too ;  that's  why  we  get 
along  together." 

There  was  a  jar  of  candy  on  a  shelf  behind 
him  and  above  his  head,  and,  turning,  he 
reached  up  a  long  arm  and  took  it  down.  It 


io  COLLISTER'S   MAN 

was  translucent  stick  candy  with  red  stripes 
round  it  —  just  such  candy  as  every  fortunate 
child  knew  twenty  years  ago,  and  some  know 
still.  In  the  piney  woods  it  has  not  been 
superseded  as  a  standard  of  delight,  and  the 
children  expect  to  receive  it  gratuitously  after 
any  extensive  purchase.  Near  the  coast, 
where  Creole  words  have  spread,  it  is  asked 
for  by  a  queer  sweet  name  —  lagnappe  (some 
thing  thrown  in  for  good  measure).  The 
man  who  worked  for  Collister  handed  the  jar 
across  to  the  girl,  making  her  free  of  it  with 
a  gesture. 

"  Do  you  reckon  Mr.  Collister  would  want 
me  to  take  some?"  she  asked,  poising  her 
slender  brown  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  jar. 
"  You  know,  they  say  that  when  he  first  come 
hyar,  an'  the  children  asked  him  for  lagnappe, 
he  pretended  not  to  onderstan'  'em,  and  said 
he  was  sorry,  but  he  hadn't  got  it  yet  in  stock. 
Is  that  true?" 

"  Yes,"  the  man  answered  ;   "  that's  true." 

"  Well,  did  he  onderstan'  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  lifted  his  shoulders  in  a  way  he  had 
learned  in  the  South.  "  To  be  sure,"  he 
said.  "  I  told  him  at  the  time  that  it  was  a 
mean  thing  to  do,  but  he  said  he  simply 
couldn't  help  himself;  young  ones  kept  run 
ning  here  from  miles  around  to  get  five  cents' 
worth  of  baking-sody  and  ask  for  a  stick  of 


TALES  n 

candy.  But  take  some ;  he  won't  mind,  for 
he's  always  good  to  me." 

She  drew  back  her  hand.  "  No,"  she  said, 
pouting;  "I'm  going  to  come  in  sometime 
when  he's  hyar,  an'  see  if  he'll  give  some 
lagnappe  to  me." 

"  I'll  tell  him  to,"  the  man  said. 

"Well,  you  are  bigoty  !  "  the  girl  repeated. 

"  If  I  was  to  tell  him  to,"  the  man  persisted, 
"  who  should  I  say  would  ask  for  it?  " 

She  looked  at  him  defiantly.  "  I'll  do  the 
telling,"  she  said ;  "  but  while  we're  talking 
about  names,  what's  yours?" 

"  Well,"  he  answered,  "  if  you're  not  nam 
ing  any  names,  I  don't  believe  I  am.  You 
know  considerably  more  about  me  already 
than  I  do  about  you." 

"  Oh,  just  as  you  please,"  she  said.  To  be 
brought  blankly  against  the  fact  that  neither 
knew  the  other's  name  caused  a  sense  of  con 
straint  between  them.  She  picked  up  her 
bonnet,  and  put  it  on  as  if  she  might  be 
about  to  go ;  and  though  she  did  not  rise, 
she  turned  her  face  out-of-doors  so  that  the 
bonnet  hid  it  from  him  —  and  it  was  such  a 
pretty  face  ! 

"  Say,  now,"  he  began,  after  one  of  those 
pauses  in  which  lives  sometimes  sway  rest 
lessly  to  and  fro  in  the  balances  of  fate,  "  I 
didn't  mean  to  make  you  mad.  I'll  tell  you 
my  name  if  you  want  to  know." 


12  COLLISTER'S   MAN 

"  I'm  not  so  anxious,"  she  said.  One  of 
her  brown  hands  went  up  officiously  and 
pulled  the  bonnet  still  farther  forward.  "  Is 
it  true,"  she  asked,  "that  Mr.  Collister  says 
he  will  marry  any  girl  that  can  make  good 
light  bread?" 

The  man  formed  his  lips  as  if  to  whistle, 
and  then  stopped.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  eying 
the  sunbonnet,  "  it's  true." 

She  turned  round  and  surprised  him.  "  I 
can  make  good  light  bread,"  she  announced. 

"You  !  "  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  sharply;  "  why  not? 
It  ain't  so  great  a  trick." 

"  But "  —  he  paused,  meeting  the  challenge 
of  her  face  uneasily  —  "  but  did  you  come 
here  to  say  that?  " 

"  You've    heard   me  say  it,"  she  retorted. 

He  rose  and  stood  beside  her,  looking 
neither  at  her,  nor  at  the  fields,  nor  at  the 
encircling  forest,  but  far  over  and  beyond 
them  all,  at  the  first  touches  of  rose-color  on 
the  soft  clouds  in  the  west.  He  seemed  very 
tall  as  she  looked  up  to  him,  and  his  face 
was  very  grave.  She  had  forgotten  long  ago 
to  notice  his  bare  feet  and  tattered  clothing. 
"  So  that  means,"  he  said  slowly,  "  that  you 
came  here  to  offer  to  marry  a  man  that  you 
never  saw." 

She   did    not    answer   for   a   moment,   and 


TALES  13 

when  she  did  her  voice  was  stubborn.  "  No," 
she  said ;  "  I  came  hyar  to  say  that  I  know 
how  to  make  light  bread.  You  needn't  be 
faultin'  me  for  his  saying  that  he  would  marry 
any  girl  that  could." 

"  But  you  would  marry  him?  " 
"  I  allow  if  he  was  to  ask  me  I  would." 
The    man   looked  down  squarely  to  meet 
her  eyes,  but  he  found  only  the  sunbonnet. 
"  What  would  you  do  it  for,"  he  asked,  "  a 
lark?" 

"  A  lark  !  "  she  echoed  ;  "  oh,  yes,  a  lark  !  " 
He  stooped  toward  her  and  put  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder.     "Look  up  here,"  he  said ; 
"  I  want  to  see  if  it's  a  lark  or  not." 

"I  jus'  said  it  was,"  she  answered,  so  low 
that  he  had  to  bend  a  little  closer  to  be  cer 
tain  that  he  heard. 

"  That  won't  do,"  he  said  firmly ;  "  you  must 
look  up  into  my  face." 

"  I  — won't !  "  she  declared. 
He  stood  gazing  at  her  downcast  head. 
There  was  something  that  shone  in  his  eyes, 
and  his  tongue  was  ready  to  say,  "  You  must." 
He  closed  his  lips  and  straightened  himself 
again.  The  girl  sat  perfectly  still,  except 
that  once  in  a  while  there  was  a  catch  in  her 
breath.  He  kept  looking  off  into  the  empty, 
sighing  reaches  of  pine  country,  which  could 
make  people  do  strange  things.  "  We  haven't 


14  COLLISTER'S   MAN 

known  each  other  very  long,"  he  said  at  last; 
"  but  a  few  minutes  ago  I  thought  we  knew 
each  other  pretty  well,  and  perhaps  you  don't 
have  any  better  friend  than  I  am  in  this  deso 
late  hole.  Won't  you  tell  me  why  it  is  that 
you  want  to  marry  Collister?" 

"  For  his  money,"  the  girl  answered  shortly. 

His  face  darkened  as  if  he  were  cursing 
Collister's  money  under  his  breath;  but  she 
did  not  look  up,  and  he  said  nothing  until  he 
could  speak  quietly.  "  Is  that  quite  fair  to 
Collister?"  he  asked.  "He  did  talk  about 
marrying  any  girl  that  could  make  good  light 
bread ;  but  I  don't  suppose  he  wanted  to  do 
it  unless  she  liked  him  a  little,  too." 

"  I  — allowed  — maybe  I'd  like  him  a  little," 
the  girl  explained  ;  "  an'  I  was  right  sure  that 
he'd  like  me." 

"  That's  the  mischief  of  it,"  the  man  mut 
tered  ;  "  I'll  warrant  he'll  like  you  !  " 

After  hiding  her  face  so  long  the  girl 
looked  up,  and  was  surprised  to  see  him  so 
troubled.  "  You've  been  right  good  to  me," 
she  said  gently,  "  an'  I  reckon  I  don't  mind 
—  perhaps  I  had  ought  to  tell  you  jus'  why 
I  come.  I  —  I  don't  want  to  be  mean  to 
Mr.  Collister,  an'  if  you  don't  think  it's  fair 
I  won't  tell  him  I  can  make  good  bread ; 
only"  —  she  met  his  eyes  appealingly  —  "  if 
I  don't,  I  don't  see  what  I'm  goin'  to  do." 


TALES  15 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked.  "Don't 
you  have  any  home?" 

She  smiled  bravely,  so  that  it  was  sorrow 
ful  to  see  her  face.  "  Not  any  more,"  she 
said.  "  I've  always  had  a  right  good  home, 
but  my  paw  died  —  only  las'  week.  You  an' 
Mr.  Collister  used  to  know  him,  an'  he  has 
often  spoke  of  both  of  you.  He  was  Noel 
Seymour  from  up  at  Castauplay." 

"Noel  Seymour  —  dead?"  said  the  man. 
All  her  light  words  pleaded  with  him  for  ten 
derness  now  that  he  knew  she  had  said  them 
with  an  aching  heart.  "But  Seymour  was  a 
creole,"  he  added,  "  and  you  are  not." 

"  My  own  mother  was  an  American,"  the 
girl  answered,  "  an'  I  learned  my  talk  from 
her  before  she  died ;  an'  then  my  stepmother 
is  American,  too."  She  stopped  just  long 
enough  to  try  to  smile  again.  "What  do  you 
think?"  she  asked.  "  My  stepmother  don't 
like  me.  She  isn't  going  to  let  me  stay  at 
home  any  more.  Could  you  be  as  mean  as 
that?  " 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "  You 
poor  child  !  "  he  said ;  for  gossip  came  in 
sometimes  in  return  for  all  that  radiated  from 
the  farm,  and  he  could  recall  a  cruel  story  he 
had  once  heard  of  Noel  Seymour's  wife.  It 
made  him  believe  all  and  more  than  the  girl 
had  told  him.  "  Poor  child  !  "  he  said  again ; 


16  COLLISTER'S   MAN 

"  you  haven't  told  me  yet  what's  your  first 
name." 

"  Ginevra,"  she  answered.  "  My  own 
mother  liked  it ;  my  stepmother  says  it's  the 
name  of  a  fool.  She  thinks  she's  young  an' 
han'some ;  but  I  allow  she's  sending  me  off 
because  I'm  a  right  smart  the  best-favored  of 
the  two.  She  wants  to  get  married  again, 
an'  thar  ain't  but  one  bacheldor  up  our  way, 
so  she's  skeered  he'd  take  first  pick  of  me." 

"  My  kingdom  !  "  said  the  man  who  worked 
for  Collister.  "  If  there's  somebody  up  your 
way  that  you  know,  and  that  likes  you,  why 
didn't  you  go  and  take  your  chances  with 
him?" 

A  hot  flush  rushed  over  the  girl's  face. 
"  Does  you-all  think  I'd  be  talkin'  like  this 
to  a  man  I  knowed?"  she  demanded.  She 
stared  angrily  until  her  lips  began  to  quiver. 
"  An'  besides,  I  hate  him  !  "  she  cried.  "  He's 
not  a  fittin'  man  for  such  as  me." 

"You  poor  child  !  "  he  said  again. 

She  caught  the  compassion  of  his  eyes. 
"What  had  I  ought  to  have  done?"  she 
asked.  "  What  had  any  girl  ought  to  do  out 
hyar  in  the  pineys  if  she  was  lef  like  me? 
I've  hearn  o'  places  whar  girls  could  find 
work,  an'  my  stepmother  she  allowed  I  could 
go  to  the  oyster-factories  in  Potosi ;  but  whar 
would  I  stay  ?  An'  then  I  went  to  the  fac- 


TALES  17 

tories  onct  with  my  paw,  an'  the  air  round 
'em  made  me  sick.  You  see,  I  was  raised  in 
the  pineys,  an'  they  has  a  different  smell." 

He  shook  his  head,  though  kindly,  at  so 
slight  a  reason,  and  the  sharp  pain  of  his  dis 
approval  crossed  her  face.  "  Oh,  you  don't 
know  anything  about  it,"  she  cried  desper 
ately;  "  thar  ain't  no  man  that  can  tell  how 
it  feels  for  a  girl  that's  had  a  father  that's 
made  of  her  like  mine  did  to  be  turned  right 
out  to  face  a  whole  townful  that  she  never 
saw.  Can't  you  see  how,  if  you  was  skeered, 
it  would  be  a  heap  easier  jus'  to  face  one 
man?  An'  then  I'd  hearn  no  end  about  Mr. 
Collister,  an'  some  of  it  was  funny,  an'  thar 
wa'n't  none  of  it  very  bad  ;  so  I  jus'  made  up 
my  mind  to  come  round  hyar  an'  see  for  myse'f 
what  like  he  was.  You  see,"  she  went  on, 
with  a  lift  of  the  head,  "  it  was  for  the  money, 
but  it  was  for  the  honorableness,  too ;  an'  I'd 
cross  my  heart  an'  swear  to  you  on  the  Bible 
that  when  I  come  hyar  I  hadn't  no  thought 
that  anybody  could  think  it  was  onder- 
reachin'  Mr.  Collister.  I  thought  he'd  be 
right  proud,  an'  before  we  got  to  talking  I 
never  sensed  that  it  would  be  a  hard  thing  to 
name  to  him  ;  but  now  " —  her  voice  trembled 
and  broke.  "  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  I  wished  I'd 
never  come  !  " 

The  man  looked  away  from  her.     "  Don't 


1 8  COLLISTER'S   MAN 

wish  it,"  he  said  huskily.  "  Collister  ought 
to  be  proud  if  he  can  have  you  for  his  wife ; 
and  he  would  give  you  a  good  home  and 
everything  your  heart  could  ask  for." 

Tears  sprang  into  her  eyes,  and  she  dropped 
her  head  upon  her  knees  to  hide  them.  "  Oh, 
I  know,  I  know,"  she  sobbed  ;  "  but  I'd  rather 
marry  you  !  " 

"  O-oh  !  "  breathed  the  man  who  worked  for 
Collister ;  "  I'd  so  much  rather  that  you  did." 
And  with  a  laugh  of  pure  delight  he  caught 
her  up  into  his  arms. 

When  they  left  the  store  a  red  blaze  of 
sunset  shone  between  the  trunks  of  the  pine 
trees.  The  man  fastened  the  padlock  behind 
them,  and  they  started  in  a  lovers'  silence 
along  the  road.  The  big  farm  was  as  empty 
and  lifeless  as  ever,  except  for  the  lonesome 
neighing  of  a  horse  in  the  barnyard  and  for 
a  single  straight  blue  thread  of  smoke  which 
rose  from  one  of  the  little  houses.  The  girl 
pointed  at  it,  and  smiled. 

"  He's  having  to  get  his  own  supper 
to-night,"  she  said ;  "  but  I'll  make  it  up  to 
him :  I'll  make  his  light  bread  jus'  the 
same." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "you'd  better;  for,  what 
ever  he's  been  to  other  folks,  he's  always 
been  mighty  good  to  me;  an',  please  God, 
he's  going  to  be  mighty  good  to  you." 


TALES  19 

A  breath  of  land  breeze  had  started  in 
the  pine  woods,  and  was  going  out  bearing  a 
tribute  of  sweet  odors  to  the  sea.  The  disk 
of  the  sun  sank  below  the  black  line  of  the 
earth,  but  the  trees  were  still  etched  against 
a  crimson  sky.  Softly  and  faintly  in  the  far 
distance  some  passing  Creole  hailed  another 
with  a  long,  sweet  call.  They  reached  the 
edge  of  the  clearing,  and  went  on  through 
the  deepening  twilight  of  the  pines.  There 
were  no  words  in  all  the  world  quite  true 
enough  to  speak  in  that  great  murmurous 
stillness  that  was  in  the  woods  and  in  their 
hearts.  At  last  they  came  to  a  path  beyond 
which  she  would  not  let  him  go,  thinking  it 
better  for  this  last  time  to  go  on  alone. 

"  Good-night,"  she  said  lingeringly ;  and  he 
held  her  close  and  kissed  her,  whispering 
good-night.  Then  he  stood  and  watched  her 
slender,  swaying  figure  as  it  grew  indistinct 
between  the  trees ;  and  just  before  it  vanished 
he  called  out  guardedly. 

"  Say,"  he  summoned,  "  come  here  !  " 

She  went  laughing  back  to  him.  "  You-all 
are  bigoty,"  she  said,  "  beginning  to  order  me 
about !  " 

He  took  her  hands,  and  held  her  from  him 
so  that  he  could  see  her  face.  "You  mustn't 
be  mad  at  me,"  he  said;  "  but  there's  some 
thing  I  forgot  to  tell  you  —  I'm  Collister." 


THE  MASK  OF  THE  LOST  SOUL 

IN  one  of  the  queer  narrow  streets  back  of 
the  Place  d'Armes  old  Hippolyte  Dolbert 
sat,  day  in  and  day  out,  painting  his  masks. 
It  was  his  busy  season,  for  the  Carnival  was 
coming  soon  —  the  Carnival  of  the  old  days, 
when  all  the  city  trooped  out  into  the  streets, 
that  high  and  low  might  frolic  together  and 
do  homage  unstintedly  to  the  mysterious 
Rex. 

Already  the  children  on  the  warped  ban 
quettes  talked  of  nothing  but  the  Carnival, 
and  of  the  strange  places  from  which  Rex 
had  last  sent  messages  in  his  progress  out  of 
the  East.  They  even  left  their  games  to 
come  peeping  into  Hippolyte's  shop,  chat 
tering  and  choosing  the  masks  they  would 
like  from  the  many  hung  about  the  room  to 
dry.  Sometimes  their  voices  so  disturbed  old 
Hippolyte  that  he  felt  like  closing  the  door ; 
yet  he  did  not  close  it,  for  whenever  he 
started  up,  frowning  ominously,  the  children 
shrank  back  with  such  woe-begone  little  faces 
that  he  would  only  stand  a  moment  on  the 
threshold,  fanning  himself  and  complaining 


TALES  21 

that  never  before  had  there  been  such  warm 
weather  in  the  early  part  of  February,  and 
that  he  felt  more  like  going  over  the  lake  for 
a  breath  of  air  than  sitting  all  year  long 
painting  masks.  Dolbert  was  always  plan 
ning  to  go  over  the  lake  for  a  breath  of  air, 
but  in  point  of  fact  it  was  only  at  Carnival 
time  that  he  even  went  so  far  from  his  dark 
little  shop  as  to  cross  into  the  heart  of  the 
city.  People  used  to  live  quietly  in  those 
days,  and  yet  strange  things  happened  some 
times  in  the  queer  narrow  streets  back  of  the 
Place  d'Armes.  Dolbert  looked  on  and  saw 
all  that  happened,  and  when  it  was  very  sad 
and  his  mind  was  burdened  with  it  his  lips 
smiled  whimsically  as  he  painted  on  his  comic 
masks. 

Night  had  just  fallen,  scattering  the  children 
from  the  street,  and  blotting  it  out  except  in 
the  rare  circles  where  the  lamps  made  their 
feeble  protest.  It  was  long  past  his  easy 
hours  for  keeping  shop,  and  the  old  man  had 
let  his  daughter  cross  the  way  to  gossip  with 
a  friend.  He  himself  had  stopped  working, 
but  he  still  sat  in  a  chair  by  his  work-table, 
and  once  in  a  while  he  picked  up  an  unfin 
ished  mask,  held  it  on  his  hand  and  talked 
to  it,  for  when  he  was  alone  and  idle  in  the 
evening  stillness  there  were  eyes  long  closed 
that  wakened  to  laugh  or  to  weep  with  him 


22      MASK   OF   THE   LOST    SOUL 

behind  the  faces  which  had  come  to  be  his 
friends. 

"  Good  evening,  'Sieur  Hippolyte,"  a  voice 
said  at  the  door.  The  mask-painter  rose  and 
went  forward,  carrying  the  mask  still  upon 
his  hand. 

"  Good  evening,"  he  said  questioningly. 

The  stranger  reached  out,  took  the  mask 
from  Hippolyte's  hand,  put  it  on  his  own, 
and  looked  at  it  long.  It  was  but  half- 
painted,  and  the  change  from  vivid  coloring 
to  ashy  white  gave  it  a  grotesque  look  of  ill 
ness  and  pain. 

"Does  monsieur  find  it  attractive?"  the 
old  painter  inquired  at  last  in  a  soft  voice. 
He  had  grown  impatient  of  the  steady,  word 
less  gaze. 

"  It  has  a  strange  look  of  suffering,"  the 
stranger  answered,  "  but  can  you  do  nothing 
better  than  that?" 

"This  will  not  be  sad  when  it  is  done," 
Hippolyte  hastened  to  assure  him.  "  I  shall 
make  it  very  merry.  If  monsieur  wishes 
something  more  laughing,  however,  some 
thing  burlesque  "  — 

The  man  lifted  up  the  mask  and  fitted  it 
on  his  face.  "What  I  want,"  he  said  from 
behind  it,  "  is  the  face  of  a  lost  soul." 

Hippolyte  looked  into  the  stranger's  eyes, 
which  were  full  of  such  infinite  sorrow  that 


TALES  23 

they  seemed  vacant  of  all  thought.  "  A 
strange  mask,  that,  for  you  to  wear,"  he  said 
gently.  "  Why  not  choose  something  merry? 
For,  pardon  me,  but  it  would  be  a  better  dis 
guise." 

"  I  have  not  asked  for  a  disguise,"  said  the 
stranger,  pulling  aside  the  mask.  "  I  have 
only  given  you  an  order.  Can  you  fill  it  for 
me  as  I  wish,  and  keep  it  until  the  eve  of 
Carnival?  " 

Without  realizing  what  he  did,  old  Hip- 
polyte  searched  the  lines  of  the  face  before 
him  with  the  understanding  of  a  man  who 
has  studied  faces  all  his  life.  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  with  a  slow  bend  of  the  head,  "  I  think 
I  can  make  you  what  you  wish,  and  no  one 
shall  see  it  until  it  is  in  your  own  hands  on 
the  eve  of  Carnival." 

"  I  do  not  care  as  to  that,"  answered  the 
stranger.  "  You  seem  to  misunderstand  me 
in  some  way,  but  it  does  not  matter,  for  all 
that  I  wish  is  the  mask.  Good  evening, 
'Sieur  Hippolyte  ;  but  remember  —  the  face 
of  a  lost  soul." 

When  'Sieur  Hippolyte  was  alone  again 
he  sat  down,  put  the  unfinished  mask  once 
more  on  his  hand,  and  nodded  at  it  solemnly. 
"  But  you  do  care,"  he  said  to  it;  and  then, 
after  he  had  been  silent  for  a  while,  he  said 
the  same  thing  again.  "  But  you  do  care, 


24     MASK   OF   THE   LOST   SOUL 

and  I  will  be  as  good  as  my  word.  No  one 
shall  see  it  until  you  call  for  it,  and  then  — 
may  the  good  God  help  you  when  the  two 
of  you  are  met." 

'Sieur  Hippolyte  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  went  across  the  street  after  his  daughter, 
for  it  was  time  that  young  girls  were  asleep. 
As  for  him,  he  was  ill  friends  with  slumber, 
and  far  into  the  night  he  bent  over  his  work. 
The  whole  pent-up  fineness  of  the  man 
awoke  and  rejoiced  in  its  opportunity,  but  as 
his  mind  determined  and  his  hands  wrought 
out  the  exquisite  anguish  of  the  mask  his 
face  grew  dim  and  haggard  from  looking 
into  the  face  of  a  lost  soul. 

"  'Sieur  Hippolyte !  "  It  was  the  eve  of 
Carnival,  and  'Sieur  Hippolyte  had  sent  his 
daughter  across  the  way  again,  or,  rather,  he 
had  let  her  go  ;  for  she  could  not  have  stayed 
still  in  the  shop  with  him  that  night,  when 
the  fleet  of  Rex  was  reported  just  below  the 
city,  ready  to  send  ashore  its  marvellous 
crews  on  the  morrow.  Her  merry  chatter 
drifted  to  her  father,  mingled  with  the  fra 
grance  which  spread  over  the  high  walls  of 
the  gardens.  But  the  voice  that  spoke  his 
name  was  quite  distinct  and  apart. 

"  Come  inside,"  said  'Sieur  Hippolyte, 
rising.  "  That  which  you  have  ordered  is 


TALES  25 

waiting  for  you,  but  I  do  not  have  it  among 
these  other  masks  that  know  nothing  but  to 
mock." 

"  If  this  is  what  I  wish,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  they  would  do  well  to  mock  it  —  but  what 
has  happened?  I  beg  your  forgiveness  a 
thousand  times  if  I  have  intruded  my  whim 
into  a  house  of  sorrow." 

He  bowed  his  head  as  he  spoke,  for  'Sieur 
Hippolyte  had  led  him  into  a  room  where 
candles  were  burning  around  something  that 
was  covered  with  a  white  cloth. 

"  No,"  said  the  mask-painter,  and  his  thin 
brown  face  felt  the  strange  tingling  of  a  flush 
beneath  the  skin.  "  It  is  I  who  have  in 
truded  my  whim.  I  did  not  think  to  see 
you  quite  so  early,  and  pardon  the  presump 
tion  of  an  old  man,  but  each  night  since  my 
work  was  done  I  have  lighted  candles  to  say 
a  prayer." 

He  drew  away  the  cloth,  and  they  looked 
down  upon  the  mask.  The  stranger  started 
back  with  lips  twitching  and  eyes  on  fire. 
"Who  told  you,"  he  cried,  pointing  with  a 
long,  straight  finger  at  the  mask,  "who  told 
you  that  I  am  a  lost  soul?  " 

"  Pardon,  monsieur,"  said  Hippolyte,  lift 
ing  the  mask  and  holding  it  beside  the 
stranger's  face;  "if  you  will  come  with  me 
to  a  mirror  you  will  see  that  they  are  very 


26     MASK   OF   THE   LOST   SOUL 

different,  and  if  any  chance  resemblance  has 
crept  into  them  it  is  not  that  I  so  willed  it. 
I  have  only  tried  to  make  you  that  which 
you  asked ;  and  may  the  good  God  punish 
me  but  as  the  thing  grew  under  my  hands  I 
thought  I  was  succeeding  more  than  well." 

The  stranger  took  the  mask  and  looked 
into  its  vacant  eyes.  "  You  have  succeeded," 
he  said,  "  and  that  is  all  I  asked.  It  is  better 
as  it  is,  perhaps ;  for,  after  all,  I  do  not  wish 
it  as  a  disguise.  But,"  he  added,  as  he  paid 
old  Hippolyte,  "  remember,  if  you  see  this 
mask  on  the  street  to-morrow,  for  the  love 
of  mercy  and  justice  stop  in  your  laughter  to 
say  another  prayer !  " 

'Sieur  Hippolyte  put  his  hand  on  the  man's 
shoulder.  "  My  son,"  he  said,  "  perhaps  it 
has  been  a  sin  for  me  to  make  you  a  mask 
like  that ;  I  have  worked  at  it  distrustfully, 
and  yet  the  fascination  of  it  has  held  me. 
But  if  you  are  planning  to  have  it  help  you 
in  anything  that  is  evil,  then  half  of  the  guilt 
will  be  mine,  and  I  beg  you  to  think  much 
this  night,  with  that  face  of  despair  like  a 
mirror  before  you,  and  see  if  it  is  not  in 
your  soul  to  yield  up  your  plan.  My  prayers 
may  be  very  good,  but  your  own  sacrifice  of 
wrath  or  greed  or  whatever  it  is  that  besets 
you  will  take  you  farther  toward  the  gates  of 
heaven." 


TALES  27 

The  stranger  gave  'Sieur  Hippolyte  a  smile 
that  was  very  kind.  "  I  am  planning  nothing 
that  is  evil,"  he  said,  "and  you  need  fear 
nothing  for  having  written  the  anguish  of  my 
life  even  upon  this  mask.  It  may  cover  a 
peaceful  face  when  to-morrow's  work  is  done. 
You  will  have  many  clews  to  what  may 
happen  to-morrow,  and  you  are  free  to  use 
them  as  you  will,  yet  ever  afterward  I  shall 
believe  more  in  a  good  face  if  I  see  you 
whispering  a  prayer  for  me,  rather  than 
whispering  to  others  what  you  know  of  the 
mask  of  the  lost  soul." 

"You  forget  that  I  may  wear  a  mask  my 
self,"  answered  Hippolyte;  "  but  God  knows 
it  will  not  be  to  do  injury  to  you  or  any  other 
man  !  That  is  not  what  I  make  them  for." 

"  Nor  why  I  wear  them,"  answered  the 
stranger.  He  was  silent  a  moment  and  then 
he  put  out  his  hand.  Hippolyte  took  it  and 
they  parted  with  a  secret  yearning,  each  of 
them  more  anxious  for  the  morrow  than 
any  of  the  joyful  souls  who  counted  off  the 
hours. 

The  next  day  Hippolyte  wore  the  mask 
which,  he  had  held  on  his  hand  when  the 
stranger  first  came  to  him.  He  had  finished 
it  without  changing  its  look  of  suffering.  An 
odd  fancy  prompted  him :  he  did  not  wish 
the  mask  of  the  stranger  to  be  the  only  one 


28      MASK   OF   THE   LOST   SOUL 

that  told  of  pain.  So  Hippolyte,  in  the 
mask  of  the  tortured  body,  went  seeking, 
seeking,  in  and  out  through  the  crowds  for 
the  mask  of  the  lost  soul. 

The  great  day-pageant  had  wound  slowly 
through  the  city,  and  the  merry  throngs  that 
had  watched  it  began  to  spread  and  stream 
along  the  streets,  laughing,  joking,  pelting 
one  another,  marching  in  motley  bands 
through  the  houses  at  their  will,  claiming  the 
privilege  of  the  day  to  make  the  city  their 
own.  Hippolyte  had  grown  weary  of  the 
ceaseless  gay  confusion,  and  his  steps  were 
trending  homeward.  He  would  rest  a  little 
to  be  ready  for  the  procession  of  the  night,  and 
perhaps,  too,  the  mask  he  sought  was  wait 
ing  for  darkness  before  showing  its  strange 
sorrow  among  the  revellers.  Not  that  he 
expected  to  see  it;  he  had  been  a  fool  to 
come  out  fancying  it  would  be  the  first  thing 
to  meet  him  on  the  street.  There  were  too 
many  people  abroad  for  that,  and  though  he 
could  not  tell  what  he  wanted  of  the  mask 
he  was  weighted  down  with  the  hopelessness 
of  finding  it.  Perhaps  already  it  had  finished 
its  work  —  strange  partial  meeting  of  lives, 
that  he  should  know  so  much  and  so  little 
of  this  man's  tragedy. 

There  were  shouts  of  laughter  and  a  puls 
ing  rush  of  feet  behind  him.  He  found  him- 


TALES 


29 


self  encircled  and  seized  by  a  noisy  band  of 
masks. 

"  Ah-ha,  Brother  Sorrow,"  they  cried,  "  you 
should  have  stayed  in  the  house  to-day  !  You 
should  have  stayed  in  just  one  day  before 
bringing  out  your  Lenten  face,"  and  they 
dragged  him  at  a  run  down  the  street. 

"  Loose  me !  loose  me !  "  he  gasped, 
wrenching  at  the  strong  young  hands.  He 
did  not  forget  that  it  was  Carnival,  but  he  had 
grown  too  tired  to  acknowledge  the  rights  of 
laughter  over  pain.  "  I  tell  you  I  will  make 
you  all  into  Brothers  of  Sorrow.  Loose  me  ! 
loose  me  !  You  are  dragging  out  my  arms." 

"  No,  Brother  Sorrow,  you  look  no  worse 
than  before,"  they  cried.  "  If  you  like  not 
aches  and  pains  you  should  not  wear  that 
mask.  This  is  the  day  when  all  sombre 
faces  go  to  judgment.  On  !  faster  !  faster  ! 
To  the  merry  justice  in  the  Place  d'Armes  !  " 

"  To  the  merry  justice  !  To  the  merry  jus 
tice  !  "  The  cry  came  ringing  down  another 
street,  and  another  troop  of  maskers  rushed 
headlong  round  a  corner,  breaking  through 
the  ranks  of  Hippolyte's  captors  and  throw 
ing  another  unfortunate  into  their  midst. 
Hippolyte  was  unhanded  and  stood  staring 
at  the  sour,  barefaced  new-comer,  who  stared 
back  at  him  and  at  the  circle  of  laughing, 
leaping  guards. 


30     MASK   OF   THE   LOST   SOUL 

"  Ah,  Brothers  Sorrow,"  they  shouted, 
"  now  you  can  each  see  how  you  mar  the 
day  !  Just  dance  a  little,  Brothers  Sorrow, — 
dance  while  we  make  the  music,  and  you  can 
still  escape  from  the  merry  justice  yonder  in 
the  Place." 

Hippolyte  and  his  companion  exchanged 
a  glum  look  of  challenge  and  stood  still. 
They  were  grasped  again  and  swept  onward 
in  an  ever-increasing  crowd  and  turmoil,  until 
they  reached  the  shadow  of  the  old  stuccoed 
court  buildings  facing  the  Place  d'Armes. 
The  gay  misrule  had  centred  there  for  its 
caprice,  and  as  Hippolyte  and  his  guards 
approached,  the  voice  of  the  merry  justice 
was  already  raised  requesting  laughter  in  the 
court. 

About  twenty  unhappy-looking  people 
were  huddled  at  the  foot  of  the  great  cask 
which  had  been  rolled  up  by  the  wall  for  the 
throne  of  justice.  They  wore  no  masks,  but 
their  troubled  faces  did  not  change  as  the 
new  captives  were  thrust  among  them,  and  a 
babel  of  mirth  answered  the  call  of  His  Honor 
on  the  cask. 

There  were  tired  people  and  sad  people 
and  wicked  people  ;  but  as  Hippolyte  was  the 
only  masked  prisoner  the  justice  motioned 
him  forward  first  of  all. 

"  Brother    Sorrow,"   he    cried   in  a  piping 


TALES  3 1 

voice,  "  if  you  are  but  pretending  to  be 
Brother  Sorrow,  if  you  can  pull  off  that 
mask  and  show  a  merry  face  beneath  we  will 
grant  you  our  gracious  pardon  for  this  one 
transgression,  flippantly  warning  you  never 
to  break  the  law  of  Carnival  again.  We 
wait  your  transfiguration,  Brother  Sorrow." 

Hippolyte  held  his  silence. 

"You  refuse?"  said  the  justice;  "then 
here  is  one  more  chance.  Amuse  us,  —  make 
us  roar  with  laughter  by  telling  us  what  ab 
surdity  has  caused  your  sadness,  —  and  that 
shall  set  you  free." 

Hippolyte  still  said  nothing.  He  was  no 
longer  angry,  he  merely  had  a  mind  to  see 
this  to  the  end  ;  but  before  the  justice  could 
begin  his  sentence  there  was  a  fresh  inpouring 
of  shouts  and  laughter. 

"  Wait !  wait !  "  cried  the  voices.  "  Let 
all  lesser  prisoners  wait !  They  will  look 
gay  enough  beside  this  Brother  Sorrow ! " 

"  Hurry  him  in  !  Hurry  him  in  !  Hurry" 
—  the  word  failed,  as  a  thrill  of  silence  cut  its 
way  before  the  mask  of  the  lost  soul.  He 
walked  forward  eagerly  toward  the  spangled 
justice  on  the  cask. 

"  I  have  wandered  all  day,"  he  said,  "  seek 
ing  one  who  cared  whether  I  were  gay  or  sad. 
It  is  more  nearly  joy  than  I  have  known  to 
be  summoned  even  to  this  Court  of  Mirth." 


32      MASK   OF   THE    LOST   SOUL 

The  silence  spread  around  the  tall,  masked 
figure  until  the  justice  rapped  again  sharply 
with  his  jingling  rod,  crying  in  his  shrillest 
voice,  "  Laughter  !  laughter  !  Must  I  impose 
a  general  fine  for  this  respect  of  court?  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  lost  soul,  looking  around 
him,  "  laugh  !  "  And  stillness  fell  again  with 
his  words.  "  Does  your  Jocund  Honor,"  he 
went  on,  "  grant  me  a  hearing  in  the  Court 
of  Mirth?" 

The  justice  leaned  forward,  bowing  his 
fool's  cap  low.  "  To  you,"  he  answered, 
"  who  seem  a  mighty  man  in  the  Land  of 
Sorrow,  the  Court  of  Mirth  offers  all  the  dis 
tinguished  consideration  due  to  one  who,  as 
a  stranger,  has  broken  laws  which  he  could 
not  understand.  Be  pleased  in  your  own  way 
to  plead  your  case  and  rest  assured  that  our 
statutes  will  be  construed  for  you  as  mildly 
as  they  may." 

"  I  think,"  answered  the  mask,  "  that  even 
in  the  land  and  day  of  mirth  my  face  will  soon 
be  understood,  for  here,  under  these  walls,  I 
can  speak  well.  They  are  not  Courts  of 
Mirth  that  are  held  there  within.  When  I 
gave  witness  there  — you  know  now  who  I  am, 
you  people  who  have  suffered  until  your  faces 
are  gray  tragedies  —  I  shuddered  at  some  of 
your  faces ;  and  you  shuddered  at  me  that 
day  when  I  condemned  my  friend,  and  not 


TALES  33 

one  of  you  laughers  laughed.  You  thought, 
and  I  thought,  I  had  damned  myself  that  day 
when  my  testimony  —  don't  you  know  me 
yet?  The  face  below  is  like  the  face  above  ! 
But  I  tell  you  I  believed  what  I  said,  and  I 
hated  him  because  I  thought  he  had  killed 
my  enemy.  I  believed  what  I  said  —  and  I 
wished  we  both  might  die,  since  he  was  worthy 
death.  But,  Brothers  of  Mirth,  that  was  a 
merry  day  ;  it  is  since  then  that  I  have  known 
suffering.  Would  you  like  to  see  my  face?" 

The  justice  bowed,  and  the  lost  soul  drew 
off  his  mask  and  looked  about.  Many  had 
known  him  in  the  past,  but  they  looked  more 
than  once,  his  face  was  swept  so  bare  of 
everything  but  sorrow. 

"  My  friend  is  within  there,"  he  said,  point 
ing  to  the  prison  walls  beyond  the  court,  "  and 
I  am  a  free  man  here  outside  —  a  free  man, 
but  a  guiltier  man  than  he,  for  the  crime  was 
done  for  love  of  me.  No,  not  by  him.  There 
were  two  who  loved  me  better  than  I  loved 
them  —  this  is  what  we  come  to  when  we  are 
loved  better  than  we  love."  He  held  up  the 
mask. 

The  merry  justice  stooped  and  lifted  the 
mask  above  his  head.  "  Higher,"  said  the 
lost  soul;  "there  may  be  some  on  the  out 
skirts  who  do  not  see  what  it  is  we  come  to 
when  we  do  not  love  as  well  as  we  are  loved." 


34      MASK    OF    THE   LOST    SOUL 

He  stood  gazing  up  into  the  mask.  At  last 
he  looked  around  as  if  awakening.  "  Am 
I  justified,  Brothers  of  Mirth?"  he  asked. 
"  Are  you  lighter  of  heart,  Brothers  of 
Sorrow?  " 

"But  the  other  who  did  the  crime?"  It 
was  Hippolyte  who  spoke. 

The  lost  soul  looked  at  him.  "  She  told  me 
as  she  died,"  he  said,  "  and  she  died  in  my 
arms.  I  had  learned  the  sorrow  of  love  before 
it  was  too  late  for  that.  She  had  suffered  — 
I  did  penance  for  her  suffering  when  I  kissed 
her,  with  my  heart  crying  for  my  friend." 

"  And  you  have  not  told  this  in  the  real 
courts?"  asked  the  merry  justice. 

"  They  will  not  listen  to  me,"  said  the  lost 
soul.  "  No  one  heard  her  but  me,  she  was 
so  quick  to  die.  They  think  it  is  my  own 
remorse.  You  know  better  than  that  here, 
in  the  Court  of  Mirth  ;  you  know  that  empty 
remorse  does  not  make  us  look  like  that  — 
lift  the  mask  higher  on  your  staff !  " 

The  merry  justice  lifted  it  as  high  as  his 
belled  staff  would  reach,  but  the  lost  soul 
sprang  up  beside  him  and  caught  the  staff 
from  his  hands. .  "  Come  !  "  he  shouted.  "  If 
you  have  pity  for  sorrow,  the  way  is  justice  ! 
If  you  love  mirth,  the  way  is  justice  !  Follow 
me  until  we  right  this  wrong,  and  then  I  will 
help  you  laugh  !  " 


TALES  35 

He  sprang  from  the  cask,  and  the  maskers 
rushed  forward  with  him,  bearing  with  them 
the  men  of  sorrow.  "  Justice  !  "  they  shouted. 
"  Justice  before  mirth  !  " 

"Justice!"  they  were  shouting  as  they 
reached  the  prison  doors.  "  Justice  !  "  — 
and  the  lost  soul  knocked  a  long  and  resonant 
knock  with  the  jester's  staff.  A  hush  fell  on 
the  street  after  it ;  they  were  listening  breath 
less  outside,  and  still  more  breathlessly  within, 
for  justice  is  not  over-welcome  at  the  prison 
door. 

The  lost  soul  knocked  again.  Not  a  sound 
within,  not  a  sound  outside.  The  Place 
d'Armes  and  all  the  streets  about  it  were 
empty.  Only  the  breath  of  music  floated  fit 
fully  across  the  silence.  Darkness  gathered. 
The  night  procession  would  soon  flaunt 
through  the  city's  distant  heart. 

The  lost  soul  struck  his  baton  sharply 
through  the  grating  of  a  window,  shattering 
the  glass,  so  that  they  heard  it  tinkle  on  the 
floor.  They  raised  him  till  his  face  was 
pressed  against  the  bars. 

"We  are  many  and  strong,"  he  said,  "  and 
we  a^k  only  for  one  man.  You  who  guard 
the  door,  will  you  bring  him  to  us,  or  shall 
we  open  for  ourselves?"  But  the  prison, 
unguarded  from  without  on  that  careless 
day,  seemed  doubly  guarded  by  its  dumbness. 


36      MASK   OF   THE   LOST    SOUL 

The  lost  soul  drew  back,  jumped  down  among 
the  men,  seized  a  heavy  club  and  rushed  with 
it  against  the  door.  The  maskers  found  such 
weapons  as  they  could,  and  beat  and  battered 
with  them  until  every  shadow  of  the  place 
seemed  crashing  into  sound.  "  Justice  !  " 
they  clamored,  "  justice  !  "  But  all  save  one 
of  the  men  of  sorrow  shrank  back,  remember 
ing  their  uncovered  faces,  and  disappeared 
among  the  echoes  that  crashed  louder  and 
louder  until  the  strong  door  was  shivered  and 
made  way  for  mirth. 

The  prisoners  cowered  in  their  cells,  and 
wondered  who  was  sought,  for  there  had  been 
no  sound  of  mercy  in  the  cries  outside,  and 
they  trembled  though  the  cries  had  ceased. 
Then  they  began  to  listen  with  sharp  ears,  it 
was  so  still.  Only  a  few  quick  footsteps  in 
the  corridors ;  the  opening  of  a  door ;  foot 
steps  again,  growing  fainter,  and  dying  in 
their  ears.  Then  sounds  of  hammering,  then 
silence  deepening  until  they  heard  one 
another  stir  and  breathe,  and  until  they 
shrank  at  even  hearing  that,  such  strange 
ness  bound  them  in  the  night. 

The  Brothers  of  Mirth  sped  apart  word 
lessly  along  the  streets,  looking  at  no  one,  and 
hastening  to  mingle  in  the  greater  throng ;  for 
when  their  mission  was  ended,  and  they  heard 
the  prison  door  close  behind  them,  and  the 


TALES  37 

frightened  guards  hammering  to  make  it  more 
secure,  a  sudden  horror  seized  them  of  the 
thing  that  they  had  done.  They  did  not  care 
to  see  where  the  lost  soul  vanished,  leading 
his  rescued  convict  like  a  child.  But  the 
masked  Brother  of  Sorrow  leaped  after  him. 

"  Brother  of  the  Lost  Soul,"  he  cried,  "  can 
I  be  of  aid?" 

"  Gentle  Brother  of  Suffering,"  answered 
the  stranger,  "  I  have  thrown  aside  that  name 
in  the  street  yonder  with  the  mask,  and  your 
aid  was  given  yesterday  when  you  burned 
candles  round  the  white  cloth.  Yet,  if  you 
are  minded  to,  pray  for  us  again  —  there 
are  hard  days  to  come  in  the  swamps,  and 
paddling  in  the  shadow  of  the  rushes,  and 
we  shall  be  safer  for  a  true  soul's  prayer." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand,  and  Hippolyte 
grasped  it.  "  Brother  of  the  Ransomed  Soul," 
he  said,  "  my  life  thanks  thee  for  passing  so 
close  to  it.  I  shall  pray,  but  pray  also  for 
me,  and  fare  thee  well." 

"Fare  thee  well,"  said  the  ransomed  soul, 
and  hurried  forward  with  his  friend. 

When  Hippolyte  could  see  him  no  longer 
he  followed  him,  and  watched  him  lift  his 
weak  friend  in  his  arms  and  carry  him  until 
they  came  to  the  river  that  is  strong  and 
swift  and  kindly,  asking  no  questions  of  the 
fugitives  who  trust  its  strength.  Then  Hip- 


38      MASK   OF   THE   LOST   SOUL 

polyte  turned  homeward,  and  as  he  walked 
he  spoke  to  something  that  he  carried  in  his 
hand. 

"There  will  be  but  one  of  you,"  he  said  to 
it,  "  for  the  other  face  will  change.  I  am  glad 
that  I  found  you  where  you  fell.  It  would  be 
wiser,  perhaps,  when  I  reach  home  to  put  you 
in  the  flames,  but  I  will  not.  You  are  a  ran 
somed  soul.  Only  the  good  God  in  His 
eternities  will  make  other  faces  fine  as  this." 

He  reached  home  and  lighted  candles 
around  the  mask,  and  whispered  many 
prayers. 


THE    RACE    OF   THE    LITTLE   SHIPS 

"  For  all  averr'd,  I  had  killed  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow." 

THERE  are  many  houseless  landings  on 
Bayou  Marie.  Paths  lead  back  from 
them  with  no  visible  object,  and  save  for  an 
occasional  boat  tied  to  a  broken  post  or  a 
tree-root  strangers  would  think  them  long 
abandoned. 

To  Rubier  Pierre,  as  he  moored  his  skiff 
at  one  of  these  points,  the  trail  which  faintly 
invited  him  was  anything  but  objectless.  It 
led  far  back  to  the  house  of  Michael  Lopez. 
Michael  was  the  father  of  Hortense. 

It  was  a  brilliant  day :  the  sun  glowed  on 
the  burnished  Marie,  in  the  quivering  air, 
from  the  shining  clouds,  from  the  infinite 
haunting  sky. 

The  shadow  of  the  pines  was  like  silence, 
and  Rubier  escaped  into  it  gladly,  although 
he  had  felt  no  discomfort  in  the  blinding 
tumult  of  light.  Rubier  was  a  Creole 
schooner-man,  with  close-set  eyes  grown 


40     RACE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SHIPS 

unflinching  in  the  long  bright  reaches  of  the 
Sound  and  the  marsh-bordered  Rigolets 
between  Pontomoc  and  New  Orleans. 

The  thread  of  path  led  straight  into  the 
exquisite  suspense  of  the  woods,  where,  feel 
ing  the  expectancy,  it  wavered  and  finally 
stood  still  in  a  sunny  opening  brown  with 
pine  needles.  Not  so  with  Rubier :  he  knew 
that  it  would  reappear  along  the  high  ground, 
but  there  were  longer  and  shorter  ways  of 
reaching  Hortense ;  he  struck  off  on  a  still 
dimmer  trail  that  dropped  recklessly  into  the 
damp  gloom  of  a  ravine. 

Above  the  rich,  crowding  water-growth, 
above  the  bays  and  magnolias,  towered  the 
austere,  always  remote,  always  dominating 
pines.  Rubier,  the  path,  and  a  dilatory  moss- 
loving  brook  sauntered  beneath,  conscious 
merely  of  their  own  transient  purposes.  The 
path  and  Rubier  did  not  mind  finding  the 
brook  under  their  feet  at  every  turn,  for 
Rubier's  feet  were  bare  and  the  path  was  un 
pretentious.  Rubier  swung  a  white  gull's  wing 
in  one  hand,  and  whistled  as  he  went.  In 
some  time  of  affluence  the  brook  had  laid  a 
tempting  chip  of  cypress  out  of  harm's  way 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree.  Here  Rubier,  discover 
ing  it,  reached  for  it  without  scruple  as  he 
passed.  It  was  well  dried,  light  as  a  feath 
er,  and  seemed  to  compel  a  knife  from  his 


TALES  41 

pocket.  He  stuck  the  gull's  wing  into  his 
hat.  Much  pulling  on  to  the  crown  of 
his  black  head  had  demolished  the  hat  cord, 
but  a  hole  placed  conveniently  at  one  side 
held  the  wing,  and  left  him  free  to  carve  his 
chip. 

Once  Rubier  stood  still  and  listened.  The 
faintest  of  sounds  reached  him,  scarcely  more 
than  the  breathing  of  the  woods,  but  it  was 
enough  to  make  him  quite  confident  that 
Hortense  was  at  home.  He  threw  back  his 
head,  and  flung  into  the  silence  the  searching, 
plaintive  call  that  Creoles  know.  The  echoes, 
tossing  it  softly  back  and  forth  in  the  woods, 
could  not  tone  it  to  the  sweetness  of  the 
distant  voice  that  answered.  Rubier  gave  a 
rapturous  nod,  felt  of  the  gull's  wing  to  be 
sure  that  it  had  not  dropped  from  his  hat,  and 
walked  on. 

The  woods  were  very  fond  of  Michael 
Lopez.  They  crowded  so  close  to  shelter 
his  low  roof  that  had  it  been  a  broader  one 
they  would  have  left  no  space  for  the  clean- 
swept  dooryard,  with  its  cherished  crape- 
myrtles  and  fig-trees.  At  the  corner  of  the 
cabin  a  hospitable  live-oak  asserted  against 
the  example  of  the  pines  the  right  of  all  live- 
oaks  to  stretch  out  strong,  spreading  arms 
for  earthly  companionship.  In  its  dense 
shadow  the  sound  that  reassured  Rubier  had 


42     RACE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SHIPS 

ceased.  At  the  flickering  edge  of  the  shadow 
waited  Hortense. 

"  I  guess  yo'  look  faw  me  yestahday," 
began  Rubier,  coming  up  with  one  hand 
closed  round  a  tiny  object  which  had  lately 
been  the  chip. 

The  never-absent  Creole  sunbonnet  had 
fallen  backward,  and  Rubier  saw  a  little  curve 
of  cheek  and  flash  of  eyes. 

"  Noel  Roget  was  home  yestahday,"  she 
said. 

Rubier  scowled.  The  Creoles  mean  "  at  my 
house  "  when  they  say  "  home." 

"An'  Annie,  an'  Frances,  an'  Paul,  dey 
was  all  heah,"  continued  Hortense,  pulling 
up  the  bonnet.  "Were  yo'  was?" 

"  I  spen'  my  Sunday  polin',  me,"  answered 
Rubier,  with  gloomy  directness.  "  We  didn' 
get  in  till  'way  midnight,  an'  soon  as  de  tide 
tu'n  we  goin'  up  Porto  faw  coal.  Noel,  is  he 
goin'  out  dis  week?  " 

"  No.  Has  it  tu'n  de  style  at  New  Orleans 
faw  men  to  weah  feathahs  on  dey  heads  ?  " 

Rubier  had  forgotten  the  gull's  wing ;  he 
plucked  it  from  his  hat  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"  I  guess  it  de  style  faw  men  w'at  got  dey 
han's  full,"  he  retorted,  brightening.  "  I  shot 
dis  gull  off  Point  aux  Cerfs,  on  de  way  out, 
an'  tack  de  wings  on  de  mas'  to  dry.  Pretty, 
ain't  he?  " 


TALES  43 

"  Yas  ;  vv'at  faw  yo'  kill  him?" 

Rubier  was  disappointed  ;  he  had  expected 
her  to  be  more  enthusiastic  over  the  snowy 
thing.  "  Wat  faw  I  kill  him?  "  he  repeated 
vaguely.  "  I  dunno.  De  fool  t'ings  was 
feedin'  away  dere  on  de  bar  like  ole  hens, 
den  w'en  dey  see  us  dey  had  to  cleah  out  so 
fas',  an'  I  t'ink  to  myse'f,  '  Yo'  mighty  wu" 
w'en  yo'  spread  yo'  wings  out.  I  show  yo' 
how  to  keep  still.'  W'en  I  shot,  dis  one 
dropped  so  pretty  I  t'ink,  '  Hortense  like  dat 
wing  in  her  hat; '  an'  I  row  out  faw  it,  see?  " 

"  Ver'  pretty,"  said  Hortense,  stroking  it 
regretfully  with  her  hand. 

"  I  got  somet'ing  else,"  Rubier  ventured, 
feeling  rather  excluded  by  her  sympathy 
with  the  gull's  wing.  He  opened  his  hand, 
revealing  about  two  inches  of  exquisite  wood- 
carving. 

"A  play  boat!"  cried  Hortense  eagerly. 
"  Oh,  how  it  is  little !  " 

"  'Bout  big  'nough  faw  yo'  to  sail  nex' 
Sunday,"  Rubier  answered,  his  face  radiant. 

Hortense  laughed.  "  I  doan'  b'lieve  Noel 
Roget  can  whittle  like  dis,  not?  I  mus'  make 
sail  faw  her." 

"  Make  it  'bout  de  size  of  yo'  hand,"  sug 
gested  Rubier.  It  had  done  him  good  to  see 
Hortense  laugh. 

"  But   yo'    play  boat,  de    big  one,  is  she 


44     RACE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SHIPS 

ready?"  Hortense  asked,  toying  with  the 
advance  guard  of  all  her  ships  of  hope. 

"I  race  her  nex'  Sunday;  she's  all  ready 
but  de  name." 

"  T'ought  yo'  was  goin'  up  Porto  faw 
coal,"  objected  Hortense.  "  Yo'  doan'  seem 
to  care  much  'bout  gettin'  home  faw  Sun 
day." 

"  Yo'  t'ink  I  not  goin'  to  be  home  by  Sun 
day?  I  fix  to  get  my  coal  an'  beat  Noel 
Roget,  too.  He  t'ink  his  little  sloop  can 
stan'  mo'  win'  dan  my  play  boat,  but  I  guess 
I  show  him,  me.  Yo'  goin'  to  be  dere?  " 

"  Maybe,"  Hortense  promised;  "  but  if  yo' 
ain',  I'll  know  sure  yo'  don'  care  'bout  comin' 
faw  Sunday." 

There  was  a  little  pause  in  which  the  live- 
oak  whispered  something  to  the  trees  that 
could  not  see. 

"  Yo'  been  rice  hullin',"  began  Rubier  at 
last.  "  I  heah  yo'  back  in  de  woods." 

"  I  favvgot,"  cried  Hortense  in  dismay. 
"  I  ain'  half  done,  an'  mamma  wan's  it  faw 
jumbolai" 

"  I  he'p  yo',"  said  Rubier  promptly.  "  Be 
an  houah  befo'de  tide  tu'n,"  and  together  they 
retreated  into  the  deeper  shadow  of  the  live- 
oak. 

No  one  could  remember  when  the  Creoles 


TALES  45 

had  not  raced  their  toy  boats  over  the  clear, 
sandy  shoals  of  Pointe  St.  Jacques.  Tenant 
strangers  might  come  and  go  from  the  Point 
itself,  but  it  would  never  occur  to  the  racers 
to  change  their  ground.  Every  Sunday  of 
the  racing  season  saw  the  Creole  population 
assembled  on  the  beach  —  the  women  in 
holiday  dress,  the  men  ready  for  wading, 
boats  in  hand,  trousers  rolled  well  above 
their  brown  knees. 

"  Rubier  doan'  seem  to  care  'bout  gettin' 
in  faw  Sunday  no  mo',"  Noel  Roget  sug 
gested  to  Hortense.  "  If  I  can'  sail  I  pull 
home  faw  Sunday,  me.  Reckon  he's  skeered 
to  race  his  boat." 

"  He  come,  yo'  see,"  replied  Hortense, 
looking  across  the  calm,  sparkling  bay. 

Far  up  Porto  some  white  sails  hovered  over 
the  marsh.  "Wen?  "  asked  Noel  scornfully. 

"  Little  Peter  got  de  boat  hyah,"  Hortense 
went  on  evasively.  "  He  goin'  to  run  her  if 
Rubier  doan'  get  in.  An'  I  goin'  to  run  dis, 
see?  " 

"  Yo'  call  dat  a  boat?  "  scoffed  Noel,  weigh 
ing  the  mimic  toy  in  his  palm.  "  Run  dat 
in  a  coffee  cup,  I  guess." 

A  soft-voiced  clan  of  girls  surrounded  it 
admiringly,  plying  Hortense  with  questions. 
Noel  gave  it  up  to  them,  and  went  off  among 
the  men. 


46     RACE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SHIPS 

Peter  Pierre,  Rubier's  younger  brother, 
was  proudly  displaying  the  new  toy  boat  to 
the  other  racers.  In  these  many-branched 
Creole  families  the  given  name  of  the  father 
is  often  used  as  the  surname  of  the  children, 
to  distinguish  them  from  their  numberless 
cousins.  Both  surnames  and  given  names 
are  few,  and  only  ingenious  combining  and 
the  occasional  adoption  of  English  forms  pre 
vent  constant  repetition.  The  alliterative 
monotony  of  Peter  Pierre's  name  had  had  a 
soothing  effect  on  his  character ;  he  did  not 
resemble  Rubier  at  all,  and  Noel  Roget 
would  be  very  glad  to  race  against  the  new 
toy  boat  under  his  management. 

"  Rubier  look  like  he  stuck,  up  on  dat 
ma'sh,"  Noel  remarked  cheerfully.  "  Yo'll 
have  to  fly  dat  '  Gull '  yo'se'f,  Peter." 

"Ah  yo'  all  ready?"  called  old  Brisset,  the 
ship-carpenter,  who  always  started  the  races. 

For  answer  there  was  a  shout  of  voices 
resonant  from  the  summer  seas,  a  turmoil  of 
splashing  feet  in  the  water,  and  the  racers 
stood  in  line,  holding  their  little  ships. 

"  Start !  "  cried  old  Brisset. 

The  tiny  fleet  touched  water.  A  land 
breeze  that  meant  nothing  to  Rubier,  in  the 
shelter  of  marsh  and  woods  up  the  bayou, 
sent  the  light  things  forward,  courtesying 
to  the  ripples.  Their  captains,  from  grand- 


TALES  47 

fathers  to  grandsons,  waded  after  them,  stoop 
ing  excitedly  to  direct  their  course.  The 
women,  young  children,  and  a  few  non- 
sporting  men  watched  them  from  the  beach. 

"  Lazare  one  fool,  a  very  beeg  one,  prit' 
near  two,"  sneered  Aristide  Le  Rat,  a  born 
Frenchman,  who  had  sailed  the  high  seas. 
"  Zey  play,  an'  zey  play,  an'  zey  play  all 
week  wiz  zere  leetl'  schooners  in  zese  leetl' 
shallow  bays  and  soun's;  an'  zen  zey  mus' 
play  ze  same  ridicule  way  toitjours,  tonjours, 
on  Sunday.  Lazare  ees  altogezer  a  flea ;  'e 
jump  an'  'e  jump  after  'ees  leetl'  boat  "  — 

"  Peter  doan'  know  how  to  jump,"  said 
Madame  'Arriette  Dolbert,  settling  her  rusty 
black  about  her.  "  Look  at  Peter,  Monsieur 
Le  Rat,  he  gettin'  'head  of  Lazare  widout  no 
jumpin'  at  all." 

"  Petair  ees  one  more  large  bete  zan 
Lazare,"  retorted  Aristide;  "  'e  jus'  march 
softly,  softly,  an'  do  notting,  but  'ees  boat 
ees  good.  Mademoiselle,"  he  added,  turn 
ing  to  Hortense,  "  'ave  you  'card  w'at  'as 
Rubier  named  him?" 

"  Yas,"  replied  Hortense.     "  It  de  '  Gull.'" 

"  Did  he  name  it  faw  dat  gull  wing  in  yo' 
hat?"  cried  Madame  'Arriette. 

Hortense  colored  slightly.  "  I  doan' 
reckon  so,"  she  said. 

"  I  wouldn'  like  to  wear  a  gull  wing,  me," 


48     RACE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SHIPS 

said  Madame  'Arriette.  "  I  have  always 
hear  it  was  mighty  bad  luck  to  kill  a  gull." 

"  I  nevah  hear  dat,  me,"  said  Hortense 
stoutly.  "  De  wings  is  white  an'  pretty." 

Aristide,  who  had  been  looking  up  the 
bayou,  turned  his  sharp,  weazened  face  upon 
her.  "You  'ave  not?  Rubier  cussin'  now 
to  'ave  kill  zat  gull." 

Madame  'Arriette  burst  into  shrill  laughter. 
"Ah,  Monsieur  Le  Rat !"  she  cried,  "w'at 
mek  yo'  guess  t'ings  'bout  peop'  like  yo'  do? 
Rubier  sure  is  a-cussin',  but  he  cuss  a  heap 
mo'  to  see  the  way  little  Peter  run  his  boat. 
Look,  Monsieur  Le  Rat !  " 

Madame  'Arriette  was  right.  Even  the 
vision  of  Peter  marching  softly  and  doing 
nothing  would  have  been  pleasanter  to  Rubier 
than  the  sight  of  Peter  roused  to  action.  The 
race  was  going  badly  for  the  "  Gull."  Cap 
tain  Lazare,  awake  to  every  advantage  of  the 
light,  shifting  breeze,  was  distancing  Peter, 
while  to  windward  of  them  Noel  Roget 
slipped  quietly  to  the  fore.  Noel  did  not 
jump  and  splash  as  much  as  Lazare,  and  he 
attracted  less  attention  until  he  gained  the 
lead.  Peter,  who  had  been  slowly  and  care 
fully  trying  to  duplicate  Lazare's  manoeuvres, 
lost  his  head  when  Noel  passed,  and  kept 
the  poor  "  Gull "  gibing  and  going  about, 
first  on  Lazare's,  then  on  Noel's  tack,  with 


TALES  49 

all  of  Lazare's  sprightliness.  Behind  Peter 
trailed  the  fleet,  reduced  to  the  position  of 
convoy,  and  interesting  itself  in  minor  com 
petitions,  but  keeping  keen  eyes  on  the  chief 
contestants.  Above  and  around  them  all 
flashed  the  brilliant  summer  light. 

Hortense  on  the  beach  was  silent  among 
the  chattering  watchers.  They  caught  her 
glancing  again  and  again  from  Peter  and  the 
"Gull"  to  the  schooner  up  Porto,  and  the 
story  of  Rubier's  folly  spread.  Finally  Aris- 
tide  approached  her. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  with  kindly  tart 
ness,  "  'ave  believe  in  ze  old  sailor  for  once. 
T'row  me  zat  gull  wing  away  out  of  your 
'at." 

Hortense  raised  her  hand  to  obey,  and 
then  stopped.  "  Dey's  anoder  one,"  she 
murmured  disconsolately,  "  Rubier  got  it 
nail'  to  his  mas'." 

Aristide  pushed  out  his  hands,  as  if  freeing 
them  from  a  man  who  would  nail  gull's  wings 
to  his  mast.  But  the  wistful  eyes  of  Hor 
tense  had  touched  him,  and  he  said : 

"  'E  come  all  safe,  Mademoiselle.  De 
win'  'e  blow  not  for  ze  man  zat  'as  kill  ze 
gull,  but  I  can  see  Rubier  make  remarkable 
progress  wiz  ze  pole." 

"  Peter !  Peter !  "  laughed  the  crowd. 
"Pick  her  up  an'  dry  her!" 


50     RACE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SHIPS 

Peter  had  gibed  once  too  suddenly,  and 
the  "  Gull"  lay  with  white  wings  spread  upon 
the  ripples.  Almost  at  the  same  moment 
Noel  passed  again  on  the  home  stretch,  throw 
ing  up  a  shower  of  spray. 

It  was  Noel's  race,  but  every  one  agreed 
that  had  Rubier  been  there  to  sail  the 
"  Gull  "  himself  things  would  have  gone  dif 
ferently.  While  the  crowd  lingered  to  gossip 
a  little  longer  on  the  beach,  Rubier's  sails  up 
the  Porto  were  seen  to  fall. 

"  Reckon  Rubier's  got  tire'  of  polin',  an' 
gone  below  faw  a  nap,"  Noel  remarked 
jocosely  to  Hortense.  He  felt  that  after  his 
victory  he  deserved  a  smile  from  her. 

Hortense  must  have  felt  otherwise,  for  she 
kept  her  eyes  severely  on  the  gull's  wing. 
At  the  moment  of  Peter's  disaster  she  had 
torn  it  from  her  hat,  but,  remembering  the 
one  on  Rubier's  mast,  kept  it,  to  do  with  it 
whatever  he  did  with  his. 

"  Dat  t'ing  bring  yo'  bad  luck,  sho'," 
protested  Noel.  "  Yo'  had  ought  to  bury 
it." 

"  I  doan'  know  'bout  dat,"  said  Hortense, 
turning  away  from  him  to  look  up  the  bayou 
again.  Round  Pointe  Marie,  at  the  mouth 
of  Porto,  she  caught  the  flash  of  oars. 

"  I  doan'  wan'  yo'  to  have  bad  luck,  Hor 
tense,"  Noel  persisted  gently,  laying  his 


TALES  51 

hand  on  the  one  which  held  the  wing.     "  Le' 
me  bury  it." 

For  one  moment  Hortense  lifted  her  shin 
ing  eyes  to  his.  "  I  ain'  skeered  of  bad 
luck,"  she  answered.  Noel  dropped  her 
hand  and  left  her. 

There  were  only  a  few  loiterers  on  Pointe 
St.  Jacques  when  Rubier  grounded  his  row- 
boat  and  sprang  ashore.  Even  these  drifted 
apart  when  the  account  of  Peter's  blundering 
had  been  given  in  detail,  leaving  Rubier  and 
Hortense  to  themselves. 

"  T'row  dat  wing  in  de  vvatah,"  he  said 
gloomily.  "  I  been  hyar  in  time  to  race 
exceptin'  faw  dat  fool  gull.  Batiste  keep 
plaguin'  'bout  killin'  dat  gull,  an'  I  keep 
tellin'  him,  '  Yo'  crazy;  de  clouds  is  full  of 
win' ;  we  get  all  we  wan'  prit'  soon.'  An' 
Batiste  say  if  we  wan'  win'  we  bettah  tek  dat 
gull  wing  off  n  de  mas'.  I  jus'  cuss  Batiste 
an'  tell  him  to  go  on  polin'  till  de  win'  come; 
an'  we  pole  an'  we  pole  till  I  get  to  studyin' 
'bout  it,  an'  it  look  like  I  hadn'  done  nothin' 
but  pole  since  I  shot  dat  bird.  By  an  by  I 
got  so  mad  a-polin'  dat  I  tell  Batiste  to  cast 
anchor,  an'  we  lowered  sails  an'  I  t'row  dat 
gull  wing  in  de  watah  an'  staht.  I  c'u'd  see  de 
blame  t'ing  a-floatin'  aftah  me,  an'  I  pulled  fas'. 
T'row  away  yo'rs.  Dey'll  go  to  de  bottom 
aftah  while  an'  we'll  be  done  wid  'em." 


52     RACE  OF  THE  LITTLE  SHIPS 

But  Hortense  hesitated.  "  Somebody  might 
pick  it  up  befo',"  she  said.  "  I  'av'  hear  dat 
buryin'  is  de  bes'  way  to  get  rid  of  it." 

"  Come  along  den,  le's  bury  it,"  said 
Rubier,  and  taking  her  hand  in  his  led  the 
way  to  a  place  where  the  sand  was  deep  and 
soft. 

"  I  hope  yo'rn  don'  come  'cross  yo'  w'en  yo' 
staht  out  again,"  Hortense  sighed,  as  they 
turned  to  leave. 

Rubier  laughed  and  kissed  her.  He  was 
ready  to  defy  and  vanquish  all  bad  luck. 

That  night  Noel  Roget  walked  moodily  on 
Pointe  St.  Jacques.  Something  white,  like 
an  escaped  toy  boat,  drifted  toward  him  on 
the  water.  He  waded  out  to  it.  The  thing 
his  hand  caught  was  a  gull's  wing.  He 
dropped  it,  then  stooped  for  it  again,  took  it 
ashore,  and  buried  it  where  the  sand  was 
deep  and  soft ;  and  he  never  knew  that  this 
was  Rubier's  wing,  or  that  Rubier  had  ground 
his  heel  hours  ago  above  the  bad  luck  of 
Hortense. 


THE  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 


OVERNOR  BROWN'S  prerogatives 
V_JTwere  numerous  and  peculiar.  Few  gov 
ernors  could  have  exercised  them  without 
great  remonstrance  ;  but  then  few  governors 
would  have  cared  to  exercise  them.  As  a 
usual  thing,  a  governor,  however  unscrupu 
lous,  holds  himself  above  the  temptations 
of  a  grocery  store,  and  scorns  ordering  his 
neighbors  to  deprive  themselves  of  their  old 
clothes  on  his  behalf.  But  if  Governor  Brown 
had  weaknesses  to  which  other  governors  are 
not  prone,  he  was  also  exempt  from  many 
failings  common  to  men  of  power.  He  was 
not  given  to  wire-pulling  or  nepotism  or 
bribery,  and  the  prerogatives  he  clung  to 
were  freely  granted  him  by  his  people. 

Freely  granted  ?  Indeed  they  were,  freely 
and  smilingly  granted,  by  all  of  the  old  in 
habitants  of  Newton  and  its  vicinity.  But 
there  was  one  man  who  questioned  them  — 
a  bustling  Northern  man  who,  after  marrying 
a  Southern  girl  in  the  North,  and  bringing 
her  back  to  her  old  home,  had  awakened  the 


54  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 

whole  county  to  stirring  activity,  making  it 
a  banner  county  of  the  new  South  as  it  had 
been  of  the  old.  This  man  could  not  under 
stand  the  way  in  which  the  Governor's  habits 
were  tolerated.  If  he  had  had  his  way,  — 
but  fortunately  even  he  could  not  go  so  far  as 
that,  —  if  he  had  been  town  marshal,  for 
instance,  the  Governor  would  have  been 
arrested  some  day,  and  put  into  any  sort  of 
custody  where  his  various  prerogatives  would 
have  been  but  a  memory  and  a  desire. 

"  There  is  a  point  where  patience  ceases  to 
be  a  virtue,"  Mr.  Adams  was  heard  to  say, 
"  and  I  think  this  town  has  long  passed  that 
point  in  its  treatment  of  that  crazy  old  darkey 
Brown.  No  wonder  your  negroes  are  inca 
pable  and  trifling  when  you  all  join  in  encour 
aging  vagabondism  and  petty  thieving  in  such 
a  way.  I  can't  understand  it.  Why,  even 
my  wife,  one  of  the  most  sensible  women  I 
know,  used  to  take  my  trousers  before  they 
were  half  worn  out,  and  give  them  to  the 
Governor  !  What's  worse,  once  I  caught  her 
hanging  a  pair  over  the  back-garden  fence, 
where  they  would  be  handy  for  him  to  steal. 
I've  had  to  put  a  stop  altogether  to  his  loafing 
'round  our  place." 

"  You  seem  to  forget  that  your  wife's  father 
used  to  own  him,"  said  Raynes,  the  express 
agent. 


TALES  55 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  that  makes," 
Adams  said. 

"  No,  I  suppose  you  don't;  but  your  wife 
does,"  retorted  Raynes.  "  Here  the  old 
fellow  comes  now,"  he  added,  "  on  time  for 
the  four  o'clock  train.  Don't  you  know, 
Adams,  that  more  people  remember  Newton 
for  the  Governor's  prayers  than  they  do  for 
your  big  shipments  of  beans  and  toma 
toes?  " 

"  What's  that  he's  singing?  "  Adams  asked 
with  a  frown,  ignoring  the  agent's  question. 

A  noticeably  tall,  lank  negro  was  coming 
down  the  street.  The  long  winter  overcoat 
he  wore  would  have  been  too  warm  for  the 
sultry  June  weather,  had  it  not  been  torn  and 
battered  till  the  breeze  ventilated  it,  and  flut 
tered  its  fragments  like  streamers,  much  to 
the  delight  of  the  four  yelping  dogs  that 
capered  around  him,  led  by  short  strings. 
These  were  the  Governor's  body-guard,  and 
he  was  seldom  seen  without  them.  The 
remains  of  a  fur  cap  did  its  best  to  cover  his 
gray  wool,  while  what  he  would  have  called 
his  shoes  made  no  pretence  of  covering  his 
faded-looking  feet.  He  was  singing  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  but  the  barking  of  his  dogs 
made  it  difficult  to  understand  the  words. 
Perhaps  he  realized  this,  for  when  he  saw 
Mr.  Adams  in  the  group  at  the  station,  he 


56  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 

gave  his  followers  a  cuff  that  admonished 
them  to  silence. 

"  Miss  Hallie  Howard  !  Miss  Hallie  How 
ard  !  Lives  on  pound  cake !  Lives  on 
pound  cake  !  Goin'  to  heaven  !  "  his  stento 
rian  voice  rang  out. 

"  Good  news  for  you,  Adams,"  laughed 
Montgomery  Stuart,  the  next  largest  truck 
farmer  to  Adams,  as  he  drove  up.  "  The 
Governor  must  have  broken  quarantine  and 
been  at  your  house  again.  You  might  as 
well  give  up ;  you  can't  keep  him  away  from 
Miss  Hallie." 

"Miss  Hallie  Howard  !  Miss  Hallie  How 
ard  !  Got  a  bad  husband  !  Got  a  bad  hus 
band  !  "  the  Governor  kept  on  as  he  was 
passing  by  the  group. 

"  You're  going  to  wait  and  pray  for  the 
travelling-men,  aren't  you,  Governor?" 
Raynes  called  out. 

The  old  man  halted. 

"  Bishop  !  Bishop  !  Bishop  Brown  !  "  he 
announced  in  deep  staccato.  "  Not  Governor  ! 
Bishop  !  Bishop  Brown  !  "  He  glanced  around 
to  note  the  effect  of  this  statement  on  the 
crowd.  Every  one  was  smiling  except  Mr. 
Adams,  "  Miss  Hallie's  "  bad  husband,  who 
looked  annoyed,  and  affected  not  to  see 
the  old  man.  Whereupon  the  new-made 
bishop  advanced  with  a  series  of  low  bows, 


TALES 


57 


and  held  out  his  hand  to  Mr.  Adams  in 
greeting. 

"  Take  it,  and  get  rid  of  him,"  whispered 
Raynes  good-naturedly. 

But  Adams  was  angry,  and  obstinately 
looked  the  other  way.  The  old  negro  con 
tinued  for  a  few  moments  to  offer  his  hand 
with  the  most  winsome  smiles.  Then  he  drew 
back  and  pointed  his  finger  at  Adams,  con 
vulsing  himself  with  silent  laughter.  The 
crowd  could  not  hold  itself;  it  did  not  want 
to  offend  the  leading  man  of  the  community, 
but  it  had  to  guffaw.  Raynes  and  Mont 
gomery  Stuart  were  the  only  ones  who  kept 
their  faces  straight  and  went  on  talking. 

The  whistle  of  the  incoming  train  soon 
made  a  diversion.  It  came  sweeping  along 
as  if  it  had  forgotten  to  stop,  then  slowed  up 
suddenly  and  the  people  streamed  out.  A 
stranger  would  have  thought  there  was  a 
surprising  number  of  arrivals  for  so  small 
a  place,  but  the  habitues  of  the  platform 
knew  that  half  these  people  had  merely 
stepped  off  the  train  to  hear  the  Governor 
pray.  Some  travelling-man  had  thrown  him 
a  coin  already,  and  he  had  fallen  on  his 
knees,  lifting  his  long  bony  hands  and  his 
resonant  voice  to  heaven. 

"What's  he  saying?"  asked  a  man  who 
had  never  seen  the  Governor  before. 


58  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 

"  Ask  him  when  he's  done,"  said  the  man 
who  had  tossed  the  coin. 

"  It  sounds  like  mighty  earnest  praying, 
but  I  can't  make  out  a  word  of  it,  except  a 
'  Lord '  now  and  then,"  said  the  new  man, 
turning  to  some  one  else.  "Can  anybody 
understand  him?  " 

"  Nobody,  unless  it's  the  Lord,"  responded 
the  other.  "  But  don't  worry  about  what 
he's  saying.  Hear  him  and  watch  him,  won't 
you?  It's  the  best  nickel  show  you'll  ever 
get,  and  don't  you  forget  it  when  he  passes 
the  hat." 

The  old  man's  face  worked  with  excite 
ment;  his  voice  rose  entreatingly,  and  fell  to 
intonations  of  remorse ;  while  his  long  hands 
reached  farther  and  farther  upward,  grasping 
wildly  at  the  air,  as  if  he  would  seize  the  very 
garments  of  Deity. 

"All  aboard!"  shouted  the  conductor, 
after  the  long  pause,  in  which  several  truck- 
loads  of  fruit  had  been  passed  into  the  ex 
press  car. 

"  Amen  !  Amen  !  Amen  !  "  cried  the  Gov 
ernor,  leaping  to  his  feet.  Then,  with  smiles 
and  genuflections,  he  presented  his  tattered 
cap  to  all  who  had  not  prudently  retreated. 

"  Now's  your  chance,"  the  man  who  had 
given  the  first  money  said  to  the  new  man. 
"  Ask  him  what  he  prayed  about." 


TALES 


59 


"  I  couldn't  make  out  quite  all  you  said, 
Uncle,"  said  the  questioner,  dropping  a  dime 
in  the  cap.  "What  were  you  praying  for?  " 

"  Praying  to  save  you  from  the  witches 
and  the  devil,"  answered  the  old  man  glibly. 
The  gratified  auditors,  who  had  been  expect 
ing  this  explanation,  gave  a  shout  of  laughter, 
in  which  the  questioner  joined  as  he  hurried 
into  the  train. 

As  the  crowd  dispersed,  Adams  found 
himself  standing  by  Mr.  Hallam,  the  old 
Baptist  minister,  who  had  been  listening  in 
quiet  amusement  to  the  Governor's  prayer. 
Adams  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  You  here,  Mr.  Hallam?  "  he  said. 

"Yes;  why  not?"  the  old  man  asked, 
comprehending  perfectly  the  reproach  which 
Adams  did  not  express.  "  It's  a  good  thing, 
once  in  a  while,  to  see  one's  self  as  others 
see  one.  I've  been  told  that  the  Governor 
takes  me  for  his  model ;  but  I  tell  Brother 
Parish  I'm  sure  the  old  fellow  has  more  the 
Methodist  style." 

Adams  shook  his  shoulders  impatiently. 
"  Well,"  he  said,  "  if  you  ministers  don't 
mind  being  taken  off  like  that,  I  suppose  it 
would  be  officious  for  any  one  to  interfere  in 
your  behalf." 

"  You've  adopted  our  ways  and  converted 
us  to  yours,  until  there's  not  much  difference 


60  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 

left  between  us,"  Mr.  Hallam  said,  with  a 
soothing  laugh  ;  "  but  there's  one  thing  that 
marks  you  for  a  Northerner  yet,  Mr.  Adams, 
and  that  is  the  way  you  call  our  darkies  to 
account  as  if  they  were  white  men.  You'll 
learn  in  time  that  the  best  of  them  are  not 
exactly  responsible ;  as  for  the  old  Governor, 
he  has  been  crazy  for  years." 

"  You  say  they  are  not  responsible,  and 
yet  you  trust  even  the  crazy  ones  at  large." 

"  The  Governor  is  perfectly  harmless,  and 
in  a  certain  way  we  are  fond  of  him.  Can't 
you  see  that  as  long  as  we  have  him  about, 
we  are  all  of  us  kings  with  him  for  fool?  We 
don't  mind  if  our  dignity  suffers  a  little.  The 
old  fellow  is  healthy  for  us;  he  is  shrewd 
enough  to  hit  all  our  weaknesses." 

"  It's  very  pleasant  and  kind  to  take  that 
forbearing  view  of  him,"  Adams  said,  "  but  I 
feel  that  the  community  will  regret  its  course 
some  day.  He  is  untrustworthy,  and  he's 
likely  at  any  time  to  make  trouble,  either  by 
unexpected  violence  or  by  pure  lack  of  sense. 
Mrs.  Adams  thinks  I'm  hard-hearted  not  to 
let  him  hang 'round  our  place  any  more  since 
we've  had  the  children,  but  I  tell  you  I  don't 
dare  to  have  him  with  them,  and  my  mind's 
not  easy  while  he's  at  large.  I  suppose  I 
take  him  more  seriously  than  other  people 
do,  because  he's  so  devoted  to  my  family." 


TALES  6 1 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  cause  to,"  said 
the  minister.  "Even  if  the  Governor  were 
to  grow  violent  —  though  he  never  will  — he 
would  not  hurt  a  hair  on  your  wife's  head  or 
touch  the  children.  He  would  die  like  a  doe 

o 

for  any  of  your  father-in-law's  people.  I 
don't  believe  he  would  ever  have  gone  crazy 
if  the  family  had  not  broken  up  at  the  old 
gentleman's  death.  After  Miss  Hallie  went 
North,  sir,  he  just  crawled  into  his  cabin  and 
grieved  himself  daft.  His  heart  would  have 
broken  if  his  mind  had  not  "  —  Mr.  Hallam 
checked  himself  suddenly ;  he  was  growing 
warm,  and  he  remembered  that  he  had  said 
all  this  before.  It  had  done  no  good,  to  be 
sure ;  yet  he  felt  that  Adams  was  a  kindly, 
well-meaning  man,  whom  it  would  be  useless 
to  offend,  since,  after  all,  he  could  not  be 
expected  to  understand. 

"  It  is  queer,  isn't  it,"  the  minister  resumed, 
"that  the  body  stands  a  broken  mind  so 
much  better  than  a  broken  heart?  A  sad 
illustration  of  that  came  to  me  the  other  day. 
I  was  called  to  see  a  dying  woman ;  she  was 
dying  of  heartbreak,  nothing  else,  and  it  was 
because  her  husband  had  gone  insane.  He, 
poor  man,  is  hale  and  hearty,  likely  to  live 
out  his  years,  but  the  doctors  say  he  is  hope 
lessly  mad." 

"I  know  who  you  mean  —  the  Taylors," 


62  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 

said  Adams,  and  their  talk  drifted  safely 
away  from  the  Governor,  who,  in  the  mean 
time,  was  wandering  down  the  street,  while 
the  whole  town  might  hear  that  he  was  on 
his  way  to  a  camp-meeting  then  in  progress 
in  the  next  town  south. 

Just  as  the  knot  of  people  who  had  been 
waiting  for  the  mail  to  be  distributed  scattered 
from  the  post-office  Adams  hurried  in.  Mr. 
Hallam,  in  his  privileged,  elderly  way,  had 
delayed  him  after  it  was  evident  that  the  mail 
was  open ;  and  now  Adams  was  eager  to  be 
getting  home,  for  the  afternoon  was  wearing 
late,  and  there  were  clouds  gathering.  He 
must  stir  his  tomato-pickers  to  get  over  the 
field  as  fast  as  possible,  for  fear  the  storm 
would  catch  him  with  ripe  tomatoes  on  the 
vines.  The  talkative  postmaster  seemed  to 
have  been  lying  in  wait  for  him,  however. 

"  Heard  the  joke  on  Brother  Parish?"  he 
asked. 

"  No,"  said  Adams  brusquely. 

"  Well,"  said  the  postmaster,  in  the  exas 
perating  tone  of  one  who  settles  to  leisurely 
enjoyment  of  his  own  story,  "  well,  you  know 
Brother  Parish  —  only  being  stationed  here 
last  year  —  don't  know  the  Governor's  ways 
very  well,  and  don't  like  him ;  but  he  don't 
want  to  show  it,  so  he's  always  trying  to  joke 
with  him.  Bless  you,  the  old  Governor 


TALES  63 

knows  the  difference  as  well  as  you  or  me ! 
Well,  just  now  Brother  Parish  he  met  the  old 
Governor  singing  about  going  to  the  Oilman 
camp-meeting,  an'  he  says  to  him,  '  How's 
this,  Governor,  going  to  a  Methodist  camp- 
meeting?  I  thought  you  turned  Baptist  last 
week.'  The  old  Governor  just  says,  '  See 
Marse  Mont'  Stuart  over  there  across  the 
road?'  An'  when  Brother  Parish  said  yes, 
he  says, '  Marse  Mont'  Stuart  got  rich  tendin' 
to  his  own  business,  an'  that's  what  I'm 
a-doing.'  Some  of  the  boys  heard  it,  and 
come  right  up  to  tell.  It's  pretty  hard  to  get 
ahead  of  the  old  man,  ain't  it?" 

"He's  an  old  nuisance,"  said  Adams, 
laughing  slightly,  but  feeling  more  than  ever 
that  Newton  was  unpleasantly  as  well  as  dan 
gerously  dominated  by  Governor  Brown. 

On  his  way  home,  to  add  to  his  vexation, 
Adams  came  across  the  Governor  again. 
How  the  old  man  could  have  gotten  so  far 
north  of  town  when  he  had  lately  heard  his 
voice  resounding  so  far  down  the  south  road 
was  hard  to  understand.  But  it  was  useless 
to  try  to  explain  the  Governor's  presence  in 
one  place  or  another.  He  knew  all  the  short 
cuts  and  byways,  and  his  long  legs  carried 
him  so  swiftly  over  the  ground  that  some 
times  his  guard  of  dogs  despaired,  and  sub 
mitted  to  be  dragged,  fore-legs  in  air,  rather 


64  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 

than  to  follow  him  at  such  a  steady  trot. 
People  said  that  he  brought  news  from  the 
neighboring  villages  quicker  than  the  tele 
graph  could. 

"  Storm  a-comin' !  Storm  a-comin'  !  Wild 
man  loose !  Wild  man  loose !  "  was  the 
refrain  he  shouted  as  Adams  passed.  Adams, 
noticing  an  unusual  eagerness  in  his  manner, 
thought  that  the  coming  storm  was  exciting 
him  dangerously,  and  reined  in  his  horse  to 
say: 

"Don't  come  a  step  farther  in  this  direc 
tion,  Governor.  You  know  I'll  have  you 
locked  up  if  ever  I  catch  you  on  my  farm, 
and  I'm  going  to  be  on  the  watch.  Turn 
back,  I  tell  you." 

Adams's  horse  was  a  good  one,  and  Adams 
put  it  to  its  best  pace,  yet  they  did  not  gain 
very  fast  on  the  Governor,  who,  instead  of 
turning  back,  was  pressing  forward  almost  at 
a  run. 

"  Storm  a-comin' !  Storm  a-comin'  !  " 
Adams  kept  hearing ;  and  then  more  faintly, 
"  Wild  man  loose  !  Wild  man  loo — oose  !  " 
until  at  last  a  hill  rose  behind  him  and  shut 
out  the  sound. 

The  storm  was  coming  fast.  The  whole 
sky  was  overcast,  but  full  of  dazzling,  diffused 
light.  Under  its  strange  brightness  the  trees 
and  grass,  the  green  crops  in  the  fields,  and 


TALES  65 

even  the  brown  earth  seemed  to  shine  with 
a  yellowish  lustre  of  their  own.  Behind  a 
broad  stretch  of  forest  that  bordered  one  side 
of  the  road  the  clouds  were  gathering  more 
densely,  and  one  of  them  which  showed 
above  the  treetops  was  the  only  dark  thing 
in  the  world.  A  moment  after  it  first  came 
in  sight  it  was  moving  swiftly  up  the  sky  — 
a  broad,  sinister  bar  of  indigo,  bordered  with 
a  lashing  fringe  of  white. 

Adams  leaned  forward,  urging  his  horse 
into  a  run.  The  first  gust  of  the  wind  rushed 
past  him  as  he  sprang  down  at  his  own  gate; 
but  he  scarcely  felt  it,  for  there,  running  down 
the  road  through  his  orchard,  came  his  wife, 
screaming  something  he  could  not  under 
stand. 

"  The  children  !  the  children  !  "  he  heard, 
as  he  hurried  to  meet  her.  "We've  searched 
the  whole  place.  Come  back  to  the  Taylor 
woods." 

Adams  turned  his  horse,  and  lifted  his  wife 
into  the  wagon. 

"  How  long  ago?"   he   asked. 

"I  don't  know  how  long.  I  thought 
Mammy  Jane  had  them,  and  she  thought 
they  were  with  me.  When  we  missed  them 
we  called  the  men,  and  we  all  searched  high 
and  low,  through  the  orchards,  everywhere. 
The  only  places  Mammy  ever  takes  them  to 


66  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 

are  Stuart's  and  the  Taylor  woods.  I  sent 
the  men  'cross  lots  to  the  woods,  and 
Mammy's  gone  to  Stuart's.  I  thought  per 
haps  they  might  have  come  this  way  to  meet 
you." 

The  wind  was  upon  them.  In  the  open 
space  that  lay  between  their  gate  and  the 
Taylor  woods  the  unbroken  strength  of  the 
gale  almost  lifted  them  from  the  wagon. 
Standing  up  for  a  moment  to  look  around 
him,  Adams  saw  his  gang  of  workmen  reach 
the  edge  of  the  woods,  pause  a  moment, 
listening  to  the  great  roar  through  the  trees, 
and  then,  to  a  man,  turn  and  run  back  through 
the  open  toward  the  farm.  He  shouted 
fiercely  at  them,  but  the  wind  took  the 
words  from  his  mouth. 

A  moment  more,  and  Adams  was  in  the 
lee  of  the  woods  himself.  He  reined  in  his 
horse.  In  the  apparent  lull  made  by  the 
shelter  it  was  possible  to  think  in  spite  of 
the  turmoil  among  the  branches.  Husband 
and  wife  looked  into  each  other's  eyes 
despairingly.  Only  a  miracle  could  guide 
them  to  their  children  through  this  wild 
storm,  in  which  they  could  hardly  catch  the 
sound  of  their  own  voices.  Yet  they  must 
search. 

They  jumped  to  the  ground,  but  before 
they  could  enter  the  woods  a  strange  rum- 


TALES  67 

bling,  grinding  sound  rose  above  the  roar  of 
thrashing  branches  and  creaking  tree-trunks. 
The  new  sound  grew  louder  and  more  dread 
ful,  until  Adams  and  his  wife  clung  close  to 
each  other  in  fear,  while  the  frightened  horse 
wheeled  suddenly,  leaped  free  from  harness 
and  wagon,  and  plunged  wildly  back  over  the 
road  towards  home.  Then,  not  a  hundred 
feet  from  where  the  man  and  woman  stood, 
the  solid  ranks  of  the  forest  broke  apart, 
gave  way  before  a  whirling  blast  of  dust, 
broken  branches,  and  uprooted  trees.  They 
watched  it  march  across  the  fields,  dropping 
part  of  its  burden  as  it  went,  only  to  gather 
up  new  victims  in  its  terrific  arms. 

With  blanched  faces  and  numb  hearts  the 
two  watchers  hastened  toward  the  gap  in  the 
forest  to  look  down  the  track  of  the  cyclone. 
It  was  as  if  some  great  scythe  had  mown  a 
path  through  the  woods  to  the  open  fields 
beyond.  The  space  was  a  little  wider  than 
a  city  street,  but  in  it  scarcely  the  semblance 
of  a  tree  was  left  erect.  Some  had  been 
twisted  off  in  the  middle ;  some  were  up 
rooted,  lying  their  full  length  on  the  ground, 
and  tangling  the  limbs  that  had  not  been 
shorn  from  them  with  the  broken  branches 
of  other  trees. 

Down  this  wild  road  the  father  and 
mother  started,  peering  under  logs,  clam- 


68  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 

bering  through  treetops,  calling,  and  listening 
with  strained  ears ;  for  the  storm  had  lost  its 
heart,  and  they  could  hope  to  hear. 

"  Amen  !  Amen  !  Amen  !  "  The  words 
reached  them  faintly.  "  Get  back,  devil ! 
Get  back,  devil!  Amen!  Amen!" — until 
the  old  Governor  leaped  out  from  the  woods 
into  the  high  road  of  the  storm.  There  was 
a  screaming  of  shrill  child-voices  and  a  yelp 
ing  of  distracted  dogs ;  but,  above  it  all, 
above  even  the  Governor's  shouts  and  the 
rustling  of  the  wind,  there  came  a  fierce  howl, 
as  another  figure  burst  through  the  under 
brush  close  in  the  Governor's  track. 

"  Miss  Hallie's  children !  Miss  Hallie's 
children  !  Got  'em  safe,  Miss  Hallie  !  Got 
'em  safe,  Miss  Hallie !  Amen !  O  Lord, 
amen  !  "  the  old  man  shouted,  as  he  rushed 
along  the  mad  course  before  him,  deftly 
slipping  under  and  past  the  obstructing 
branches,  and  dodging  from  the  grasp  of  the 
man  behind,  who  was  plunging  straight 
through  the  jungle  of  roots  and  limbs,  his 
garments  shredded  from  him,  and  his  flesh 
torn. 

On  they  came,  —  the  madman  always 
within  reach  of  the  Governor,  always  eluded 
by  him,  —  crawling  under  uplifted  roots, 
vaulting  over  tree-trunks,  tearing  aside  the 
lowered  curtains  of  vines ;  while,  far  in  the 


TALES  69 

rear,  the  Governor's  dogs  whined  piteously 
behind  some  barrier  they  could  not  scale. 

"  Got  'em  safe,  Miss  Hallie  !  Got  'em  safe, 
Miss  Hallie  !  "  the  Governor  kept  shouting ; 
but  where  he  had  them  the  parents  did  not 
know  until  the  old  man  bounded  up  to 
them,  unbuttoned  his  long  coat,  dropped  the 
children  in  their  arms,  and  faced  his  pursuer, 
beating  him  off  with  the  great  shattered  branch 
of  a  tree.  Then  back  they  turned,  the  Gov 
ernor  in  chase  ;  and  when  Adams  looked  up 
from  his  babies  they  were  vanishing  far  down 
the  narrow  swath  of  the  cyclone. 

"  I've  never  gotten  it  out  of  him  yet," 
Adams  often  says;  "  he  won't  tell  how  he 
knew  that  Taylor  had  escaped  from  his 
keeper,  or  that  my  children  were  in  the 
woods.  All  he'll  say  is  that  it  was  Taylor's 
woods,  and  he  knew  Taylor  wouldn't  want 
any  stray  children  there.  But  I  know  one 
thing,  and  that  is  that  I  never  heard  any 
prayer  that  lifted  me  so  straight  to  heaven  as 
the  Governor's  did  when  I  caught  up  to  him. 
He  had  that  wild  man  down,  and  was  kneel 
ing  on  his  breast,  giving  thanks  to  the  Lord." 

''What  did  he  say,  Adams?  "  Raynes,  the 
express-agent,  likes  to  ask. 

"  If  you  don't  know  what  the  Governor 
says  when  he  prays,  I  can't  tell  you,"  Ad 
ams  answers;  "  but  it  means  enough  to  Miss 


70  GOVERNOR'S  PREROGATIVES 

Hallie  and  me  for  us  to  have  the  old  man 
pray  for  us  regularly  once  a  day.  Miss 
Hallie  spoke  once  of  omitting  it  when  we  had 
some  Northern  friends  visiting  us,  but  I  told 
her  that  to  act  as  our  chaplain  was  one  of  the 
Governor's  prerogatives." 


THE   MOUNTAIN   GOLD 
I. 

FAR  up  the  mountain-side  a  hands- 
breadth  of  clearing  broke  into  the  forest. 
In  the  daytime  a  thread  of  wood  smoke  rose 
out  of  it,  pale  against  the  sky,  and  marked  it 
from  a  distance,  but  after  sundown  the  place 
was  lost  in  the  great  black  shadow  of  the 
peak,  unless  one  went  near  enough  to  see  the 
little  cabin  outlined  vividly  against  the  dark 
ness  by  the  firelit  chinks  in  the  thick  log 
walls  and  a  red  flare  of  light  from  its  open 
door. 

One  night  in  early  spring,  when  the  air 
was  soft  from  a  whole  day's  sunshine  and 
sweet  with  the  smell  of  all  the  things  which 
were  beginning  to  grow  in  the  woods,  a  sway 
ing  torch  came  out  from  between  the  trees 
and  crossed  the  field.  A  half-grown  girl  was 
carrying  the  torch,  and  a  slightly  smaller  girl 
clung  to  her  other  hand.  Within  the  flicker- 

o 

ing  circle  of  brightness  in  which  they  moved 
there  was  a  core  of  shadow  at  their  feet,  and 
they  came  stumbling  through  it  over  the  un- 


72  THE    MOUNTAIN   GOLD 

even  ground,  now  on  the  crest  and  now  in 
the  trough  of  a  newly-made  furrow,  but  guid 
ing  themselves  always  toward  the  glowing 
framework  of  the  low  black  cabin. 

"  Hit  allus  'pears  ter  me  at  night  's  if  we- 
uns  lived  in  er  sort  er  cage,"  the  younger 
girl  said  as  she  scrambled  to  keep  up  with 
the  freer  pace  of  her  sister.  "Don't  hit 
look  like  hit  war  thes  plumb  made  outen 
cracks  ?  " 

"  Good  enough  fer  beastises  like  we-uns," 
the  older  girl  answered  sharply,  "  livin' 
plumb  wild  up  hyar  on  the  mounting  an' 
keepin'  a  lookout  all  the  time  like  critters 
that's  'feard  er  bein'  run  down  er  shot.  I 
can't  see  why  pap  ever  sold  out  the  store 
in  the  Holler  an'  traipsed  up  hyar." 

"  Projecty,  projecty,"  the  younger  girl  an 
swered  wisely;  "  thes  so  projecty  he  couldn't 
set  still  an'  prosper  —  that's  what  mammy 
uster  say." 

"  Well,  he's  cert'nly  boun'  to  be  spied  out 
an'  cotched  some  er  these  times,"  the  older 
girl  declared.  "  I  wisht  pap  had  some 
sense." 

"  Oh,  Ducie  !  "  the  small  sister  exclaimed, 
in  a  protesting  voice,  "  look  like  you-uns  is 
mighty  cross  'ith  pap  to-night." 

The  older  girl  stuck  her  torch  into  the 
moist  earth  and  extinguished  it,  for  they 


TALES 


73 


were  almost  at  the  cabin  door.  "  I  ain't 
cross  'ith  pappy  hisse'f,  Rinth,"  she  ex 
plained  ;  "  I'm  on'y  mad  at  his  plumb  silli 
ness." 

A  dog  came  bounding  out,  welcoming 
them  with  soft  "  woofs  "  of  joy.  The  cabin 
was  silent  except  for  the  crackling  of  the  fire, 
and  as  they  went  inside  the  girls  fell  silent, 
too.  Rinth  poured  the  new  milk  out  of  the 
bucket  she  had  been  carrying,  washed  the 
bucket,  and  hung  it  on  a  peg.  Ducie  put 
the  brands  which  had  fallen  at  the  sides  of 
the  fire  back  into  its  centre,  and  the  renewed 
blaze  flooded  the  small,  bare  room  with  gold. 
Ducie's  sunburned  yellow  hair  caught  a  glow 
from  it,  her  brown  cheeks  took  a  richer  col 
oring  in  its  light,  and  her  blue  eyes  sparkled 
back  to  it  as  she  leaned  a  moment  by  the  fire 
place  looking  into  the  flames.  Rinth  came 
and  stood  beside  her — she  was  smaller  and 
slighter,  and  had  a  way  of  looking  at  Ducie 
while  Ducie  looked  at  other  things.  After 
ward  Rinth  remembered  just  what  Ducie 
told  her  about  them  better  than  she  ever 
remembered  what  she  had  seen  herself. 

"  You-uns  ain't  no  call  to  set  yorese'f  up 
fer  knowin'  more'n  pap  do,"  she  remonstrated 
softly. 

"Pshaw!  I  ain't  er  studyin'  'bout'n  that 
no  more,"  Ducie  answered.  "I'm  thes  lettin' 


74  THE    MOUNTAIN    GOLD 

on  to  myse'f  what  we-uns'd  do  if  we  went 
back  ag'in  to  live  in  the  Holler." 

The  dog  had  stretched  his  paws  and  nose 
to  the  fire  and  was  blinking  into  it.  Suddenly 
he  pricked  up  his  ears.  The  girls  had  heard 
nothing  but  their  own  voices,  the  fire,  and 
the  murmuring  of  the  tree-tops,  but  as  they 
listened  closer  they  heard  a  faint  "  Halloo  !  " 
upon  the  breeze.  Rinth  caught  her  sister's 
hand.  "  Hit's  tlicm"  she  said. 

"  Hollerin'  to  let  theirse'ves  be  knowed  ?  " 
Ducie  asked  ironically.  "  I  'low  hit's  some 
of  the  folkses  from  the  Holler  comin'  up  an' 
speakin'  beforehand  to  let  us  be  sure  they's 
friends." 

The  call  sounded  again  and  again,  grow 
ing  louder  with  each  repetition,  and  soon  the 
dog  rushed  out,  barking  wildly,  into  the 
darkness. 

"  There,  there,  old  boy,"  a  stranger's  voice 
said  pacifically,  "  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  me 
and  I'm  not  afraid  of  you  —  that's  it,  good 
old  fellow." 

The  dog  gave  a  few  sharp  friendly  yelps 
and  submitted  to  the  stranger's  hand  upon 
his  head.  The  girls  stood  shrinking  in  the 
doorway.  They  could  hear  the  tread  of 
two  men.  "  Bounce  !  "  Ducie  called  out, 
"Bounce!" 

Bounce  had  the  name  of  being  a  savage 


TALES  7S 

dog,  but  he  came  waggling  up  between  the 
strangers  with  entire  disregard  for  his  reputa 
tion.  "He's  all  right.  I've  made  friends 
with  him,"  one  of  the  men  said.  "  He  came 
across  us  in  the  woods  to-day  and  I  gave  him 
part  of  my  dinner,  so  he  hasn't  forgotten 
us —  My!  you  two  children  aren't  all  by 
yourselves  here,  are  you?  Where  are  your 
folks?" 

He  had  come  as  far  as  the  doorway,  and 
was  staring  in  at  the  meagre  loneliness  which 
he  had  expected  to  find  peopled  by  a  big 
mountain  family,  even  though  there  were  but 
two  heads  at  the  door.  Ducie  and  Rinth 
stood  huddled  together  like  rabbits  startled 
by  an  unexpected  sound.  Mountain  children 
are  all  shy,  but  these  girls  had  fear  under* 
neath  their  shyness.  "  Where  are  your 
folks?  "  the  stranger  repeated.  "We've  lost 
ourselves  up  here  in  the  woods,  and  we  want 
to  stay  all  night." 

Ducie's  lips  parted.  She  looked  quickly 
behind  her  and  around  her,  as  if  the  place 
had  grown  unfamiliar  and  she  was  not  sure 
but  there  was  some  other  opening  than  the 
doorway,  which  was  half  filled  by  the  two 
men ;  suddenly  she  sprang  past  them,  pull 
ing  Rinth  after  her ;  the  men  could  hear  the 
swift  touches  of  their  bare  feet  as  they  flew 
from  furrow  to  furrow  in  the  dark. 


76  THE   MOUNTAIN   GOLD 

The  one  who  had  not  spoken  began  to 
laugh.  "You  have  a  taking  way  with  these 
mountain  people,  Hodges,"  he  said. 

"  So  it  seems,"  the  other  answered,  walk 
ing  into  the  cabin.  "  Anyhow,  we'll  stay  and 
see  what  happens  next." 

At  the  edge  of  the  clearing  Ducie  sank 
down  among  the  bushes,  and  Rinth  almost 
fell  beside  her.  They  were  breathless  from 
alarm,  and  at  first  they  only  held  each  other 
tight  and  listened  to  the  beating  of  their 
hearts  and  the  mysterious  movements  among 
the  trees.  Bounce  had  not  followed  them, 
but  whether  he  was  staying  behind  as  faithful 
guardian  of  the  house  or  out  of  interest  in  his 
new  acquaintances  the  girls  could  not  tell. 
It  seemed  evident  at  last  that  no  one  was 
coming  after  them.  "  Rinth,"  said  Ducie 
cautiously,  though  Rinth  was  crouching  close 
against  her. 

"  Oh,  Ducie  !  "  Rinth  whispered,  "  we  can 
go  to  pap,  now  cain't  we?  " 

"  I  wisht  we  hadn't  run,"  Ducie  said. 
'"Running  like  that,  hit  look  like  we  got 
some  sort  er  place  to  run  to,  an*  'ith  Bounce 
there  so  kind  an'  friendly  they  could  start 
out  an'  track  us  whensoever  they  took  the 
notion." 

Both  girls  were  trembling  from  head  to 
foot.  "  Look  like  hit  war  mean  er  Bounce 


TALES  77 

not  to  tell  us  he'd  met  up  'ith  furreigners  in 
the  woods,"  Rinth  said  with  a  sob. 

"  Hit  war  —  powerful  mean,"  Ducie  agreed. 
"  He  could  er  let  on,  somehow,  stiddier 
carryin'  on  so  innercent." 

"  Maybe  he  disremembered,"  Rinth  sug 
gested.  She  did  not  like  to  have  even 
Bounce  held  up  for  judgment. 

"  Disremembered  !  "  Ducie  said,  and  then 
they  were  quiet  until  she  rose  slowly  to  her 
feet.  "  We  got  ter,  Rinth,"  she  whispered. 

"  Got  ter  what?"  Rinth  asked.  "Oh,  Ducie, 
we-uns  could  jes'  stay  hyar  all  night  an'  let 
they-uns  do  what  they  wanted  ter  by  their- 
se'ves." 

"  That'd  be  a  good  way  ter  take  keer  of 
pap,"  Ducie  said.  "  I  ain't  mindin'  if  pap 
don't  have  no  sense,  I  ain't  er  goin'  ter  have 
him  cotched  when  I  can  go  back  an'  say, 
like  he  allus  tole  us,  that  he's  off  er  coon- 
huntin',  but  they  is  powerful  welcome  ter 
stay  and  have  their  suppers  an'  sleep  in  the 
loft." 

Ducie  was  still  frightened,  but  she  stepped 
resolutely  into  the  open,  and,  with  Rinth 
holding  tight  and  drawing  back  on  her  hand, 
they  crossed  the  ploughed  ground  again  to 
the  cabin.  The  light  flared  out  as  before, 
and  there  was  silence.  They  stood  shudder 
ing  for  a  long  time,  covered  by  the  shadow. 


78  THE   MOUNTAIN   GOLD 

Then  Ducie  leaned  out  and  peered  round  the 
edge  of  the  doorway.  The  men  were  tilted 
back  in  the  old  splint-bottomed  chairs,  gaz 
ing  into  the  fire.  Bounce  sat  between  them, 
cocking  an  ear  now  in  one  direction  and  now 
in  another,  with  an  affectation  of  vigilance, 
but  he  had  not  noticed  the  coming  of  the 
girls.  Either  his  head  had  been  turned  by 
these  strangers  or  he  was  growing  deaf. 
Ducie  spoke  to  him,  for  he  was  the  only  one 
of  whom  she  was  not  afraid. 

"Bounce  !  "  she  ventured. 

The  man  named  Hodges  looked  up  quickly. 
"  Don't  mind  us,"  he  said  ;  "  come  in." 

The  children  sidled  into  the  house,  and 
little  by  little  as  the  strangers  talked  to  them 
they  lost  their  shyness  and  went  about  their 
work  without  constraint.  Ducie  mixed  the 
batter  for  hoe-cakes  and  set  some  bacon  to 
sizzling;  Rinth  made  coffee  in  a  battered, 
flame-blackened  pot  over  the  fire.  The 
strangers  asked  many  questions  while  they 
watched  the  progress  of  the  meal  and  while 
they  were  eating  it;  but,  though  it  seemed  to 
them  very  unnatural  for  two  girls  to  be  all 
alone  like  this  in  an  isolate  mountain-cabin, 
they  could  learn  little  about  them  except 
that  their  mother  was  dead  and  that  they 
lived  with  their  father,  and  grew  small  patches 
of  cotton  and  corn  and  tobacco  in  the  open 


TALES  79 

space  around  them,  and  that  their  father  was 
fond  of  hunting  and  stayed  out  with  his  gun 
pretty  nearly  night  and  day.  Of  the  store, 
and  their  old  home  in  the  Hollow,  and  their 
discontent  with  their  father  the  children  did 
not  speak. 

When  the  men  had  eaten  their  supper 
they  climbed  into  the  loft,  and  they  were  not 
surprised  at  hearing  the  ladder  softly  taken 
away  after  they  had  stopped  talking.  They 
had  grown  used  to  the  mountain  people, 
and  they  knew  that  "  foreigners  "  were  never 
trusted,  no  matter  how  kindly  they  might  be 
received. 

In  the  morning  they  found  the  ladder  in  its 
place.  Bacon  and  corn-bread  and  coffee 
were  in  progress  again  as  they  came  down 
into  the  room,  but  Ducie  raised  a  flushed  face 
from  the  fire  and  made  a  motion  for  silence, 
pointing  to  a  bed  in  one  corner  where  a  man 
lay  sleeping  heavily.  She  gave  them  their 
breakfast  and  then  they  followed  her  outside. 
Rinth  and  Bounce  were  taking  care  of  the 
cow  at  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  but  Ducie 
seemed  less  timid  than  when  they  were  with 
her.  In  daylight  her  face  was  browner  and 
her  hair  more  faded  by  the  sun,  but  there 
was  something  remarkably  independent  in 
the  poise  of  her  head  and  in  her  bright,  un 
communicative  blue  eyes. 


8o  THE    MOUNTAIN    GOLD 

"  What  is  you-uns  doin'  up  hyar  on  the 
mounting?"  she  asked. 

"  Prospecting,"  answered  Hodges. 

"  Hunting,  like  your  father,"  said  the  other 
f  man. 

"You'd  better  bring  a  gun  along  before 
you  talk  about  hunting,  Burnham,"  laughed 
Hodges.  "  We're  prospecting  for  mines." 

Burnham  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  slung 
over  them  the  bag  which  he  had  brought 
the  night  before.  "  This  is  a  still  hunt,"  he 
answered  good-naturedly. 

Ducie's  face  did  not  change  a  muscle,  but 
her  eyes  brightened.  "  If  you-uns  is  revenue 
officers  huntin'  for  er  still,"  she  said,  leaning 
toward  them  eagerly,  "  I've  hearn  tell  that 
thar's  one  hid  in  the  rocks  above  Blount's 
Cove,  over  t'other  side  of  the  mounting." 

Hodges  looked  her  keenly  in  the  face. 
"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "we'll  remember." 

Ducie's  eyes  fell.  "  I  hadn't  ort  to  have 
tole  you,"  she  faltered,  and  a  quick  blush 
spread  up  over  her  face. 

There  was  no  still  in  the  rocks  above 
Blount's  Cove,  and  the  lie  shamed  her, 
though  she  had  told  it  to  protect  her  father. 
She  did  not  realize  that  the  strangers  saw 
straight  through  it,  knowing  that  the  moun 
tain  people  do  not  betray  each  other. 

"  So    the    old     man    is    a    moonshiner," 


TALES  8 i 

Hodges  guessed,  as  they  walked  out  of 
hearing.  "  I  fancied  it  was  some  such  outfit 
from  the  start." 

"  Lucky  for  them  we're  not  revenue  men," 
Burnham  chuckled.  "  But  if  we  don't  strike 
what  looks  like  a  paying  vein  to-day  I'll  be 
ready  to  give  the  whole  thing  up." 


II. 


When  Rinth  came  back  from  her  milk 
ing  Ducie  was  still  looking  at  the  spot  in 
the  woods  into  which  the  men  had  vanished. 
"Rinth,"  she  said,  "I'm  goin'  to  talk  to 
pappy  when  he's  er  ploughin',  an'  don't  you 
try  to  put  in  no  word  or  say  nothin',  'cause 
hit  won't  do  no  good." 

"  What  you  goin'  to  say  to  him,  Ducie?  " 
Rinth  asked. 

Their  father  came  shuffling  out  of  the 
cabin,  scarcely  awake  and  half-blinded  by 
the  sun.  "  Hitch  up  the  jinney,  Duce,"  he 
ordered,  trying  to  open  his  eyes  to  the  glit 
tering  light  which  brimmed  to  the  very  top 
of  the  clearing  and  sparkled  on  the  upper 
edges  of  the  forest,  seeming  to  shine  from 
the  whole  dazzling  surface  of  blue  sky  and 
shimmering  clouds.  "  Rinthy,  child,"  he 
added,  shading  his  forehead  and  looking 


82  THE    MOUNTAIN    GOLD 

down  at  her,  "  fix  pappy  his  breakfas'  an' 
then  we'll  thes  wrastle  into  that  thar  cotton- 
patch  an'  finish  plantin'  hit  to-day.  'Tain't 
allus  that  you-uns'll  have  to  tromp  behind  a 
plough,  strewin'  cotton-seed,  an'  when  Hank 
Jerdon  says  a  thing,  Rinth,  you  can  bank  on 
hit.  Yes,"  he  muttered  again,  with  a  lurk 
ing  smile,  "  that's  the  word  —  you  can  bank 
on  hit." 

A  half  hour  later  he  was  guiding  the  don 
key  and  plough  round  and  round  a  knoll  at 
the  edge  of  the  clearing,  keeping  the  furrow 
at  a  water-level,  as  they  always  do  in  plough 
ing  hilly  ground  in  the  South.  The  girls 
followed  him,  flinging  cotton-seed  on  to  the 
freshly-turned  red  earth.  It  was  a  silent  pro 
cession,  for  the  father  was  still  tired  and 
sleepy.  Ducie  kept  her  face  hidden  in  her 
sunbonnet,  and  Rinth  looked  away  from 
them  both  as  much  as  possible.  After  a 
long  time  Ducie  spoke. 

"  Pap,"  she  said  stoically,  "  the  revenue 
men  is  after  you-uns.  They  slep'  in  the  loft 
las'  night  an'  I  lied  to  'em  an'  sent  'em  over 
to  Blount's  Cove  lookin'  for  er  still  this 
mornin'." 

Hank  Jerdon  dropped  the  plough-handles, 
and  if  Ducie  had  seen  his  face  her  own  would 
have  been  less  troubled  as  she  scattered  out 
the  seed.  "The  revenue  men?"  he  said 


TALES  83 

slowly,  while  surprise,  amusement,  and  a  sort 
of  cunning  pleasure  followed  one  another 
through  his  eyes.  "  Git  erlong,  you  jinney  !  " 
he  shouted,  "  git  erlong !  "  Taking  up  the 
handles  he  jerked  the  plough  back  for  a 
fresh  start.  "  You're  a  mighty  peart  child," 
he  went  on  over  his  shoulder  to  Ducie,  "  but 
them  thar  officers'll  be  powerful  dumb  if 
they  don't  suspicion  that  you-uns  is  so  free 
to  tell  bout'n  a  still  at  Blount's  Cove  thes 
to  get  'em  off  the  scent  of  one  this  side  the 
mounting." 

"  Oh,  pap  !  "  Ducie  cried  out  in  alarm.  Her 
father  said  nothing,  and  she  crept  along  after 
him,  strewing  the  seed  to  right  and  left  with 
hands  that  trembled,  while  her  eyes  saw 
nothing  but  wretchedness.  A  burning  dis 
gust  for  herself  and  her  stupid  lie  paled  into 
fear  of  what  might  happen  from  it.  She 
wished  she  could  burst  into  tears  and  beg  her 
father  to  forgive  her,  because  she  had  thought 
she  had  more  sense  than  he,  and  had  not 
wakened  him  to  talk  to  the  strangers ;  but 
Ducie  was  not  of  a  nature  to  which  tears 
could  come;  and,  though  her  throat  ached 
and  her  eyes  burned,  she  could  only  walk 
doggedly  on,  strewing  the  cotton-seed  and 
thinking  such  cruel  things  to  herself  that  she 
had  to  set  her  lips  not  to  say  them  aloud. 
Once  she  felt  Rinth's  hand  tugging  at  her 


84  THE   MOUNTAIN    GOLD 

dress,  but  she  shook  the  hand  off,  and  then 
she  hated  herself,  because  she  knew  that  Rinth 
would  cry  at  having  been  pushed  away. 

"  Pappy,"  she  broke  out,  in  a  smothered 
voice  that  startled  her,  for  she  did  not  know 
that  she  was  going  to  speak,  "  won't  you  thes 
leave  that  thar  still  whar  it  Stan's  in  the  cave, 
an'  go  back  ag'in  inter  the  Holler  whar  we 
was  all  so  satisfied?"  She  had  wanted  to  ask 
it  so  long  that  to  hear  the  words  on  her  lips 
was  a  relief,  and  she  gathered  courage  from 
them.  "  Oh,  pappy,"  she  cried  vehemently, 
out  of  the  shelter  of  her  drooping  bonnet, 
"  hit  ain't  no  good  to  live  this  er-way,  thes 
for  the  sake  er  one  ole  still  that  you-uns  is  so 
shamed  er  that  you  ain't  never  owned  up  to 
us  that  hit's  that  in  the  cave.  What  good  is 
hit  doin'  to  we-uns?  Is  we  powerful  rich  an' 
proud  up  hyar  whar  we  don't  see  nobody  onct 
a  year,  an'  when  we  sees  'em  we's  skeered  ? 
Why  cain't  we  move  back  to  the  Holler,  an' 
live  the  way  other  folkses  do,  an'  have  good 
times?  Even  little  Rinthy,  she  gits  lonesome 
up  hyar  by  ourse'ves  day  an'  night  'ith  nothin' 
but  the  trees  and  the  wild  critters  prowlin' 
about  an'  the  hoot-owls  to  keep  us  peart  an' 
happy." 

Her  father  had  been  chuckling  to  himself 
when  she  began,  but  his  face  turned  grave  as 
he  listened.  "  Duce,"  he  said,  "  if  you-uns 


TALES  85 

has  yore  hearts  so  set  on  the  Holler,  I  'most 
wish  I'd  never  set  eyes  on  that  thar  cave  an' 
all  that's  in  hit ;  but  maybe  the  revenue  men'll 
hunt  it  out  an'  save  me  the  trouble  of  gettin' 
rid  of  hit.  S'pose  you'd  be  proud  to  have 
'em,  sence  you're  so  ashamed  er  what  yore 
pappy  does  up  thar?" 

"  Oh,  pappy,"  Rinth  put  in,  with  a  tearful 
voice,  "  Ducie  ain't  'shamed  er  you,  she's 
thes  " 

"  Be  still,  Rinth,"  said  Ducie  miserably ; 
and  they  worked  on  without  another  word, 
while  the  sun  moved  slowly  across  the  open 
sky,  and  Ducie's  head  swam  with  visions  of 
the  revenue  men  hunting  out  the  trail  and  the 
cave.  Her  father  would  despise  her  after 
this.  He  had  always  liked  Rinth  best,  be 
cause  Rinth  never  opposed  him,  and  now 
Ducie  felt  that  his  last  patience  with  her 
would  be  gone.  She  wondered  why  he  did 
not  start  out  and  try  to  keep  the  men  from 
finding  the  cave,  but  he  only  ploughed  on, 
and  once  in  a  while  she  heard  him  laugh  a 
queer,  dry  laugh  to  himself. 

At  eleven  o'clock  they  unhitched  the 
donkey  and  went  back  to  the  cabin  to  get 
their  dinner  and  rest  until  two.  The  moun 
tain  people  take  long  hours  for  their  nooning, 
and  Hank  always  went  to  sleep  after  he  had 
eaten.  As  soon  as  he  was  stretched  upon 


86  THE   MOUNTAIN   GOLD 

the  bed  Ducie  patted  Bounce,  and  they  went 
softly  out  of  the  cabin.  Rinth  looked  up 
wistfully,  but  Ducie  shook  her  head,  and  the 
smaller  girl  had  to  sit  down  by  herself  in  the 
sunshine,  and  wonder  why  Ducie  was  hurrying 
off  so  fast  into  the  woods. 

At  the  place  where  the  strangers  had 
passed  out  of  sight  a  few  crushed  plant-stems 
marked  the  direction  they  had  taken,  and 
Bounce  ran  eagerly  ahead,  snuffing  with  his 
nose  to  the  ground,  and  leading  the  way  down 
from  the  spur  of  the  ridge  into  a  ravine 
where  ledges  of  slate  and  schist  jutted  out 
through  the  rich  greenery,  and  overhung  a 
little  stream  that  was  shaded  by  dogwoods 
and  half  lost  in  fern.  In  places  along  this 
stream  there  was  much  trampling,  and  fresh 
tracks  led  back  from  it  where  bits  of  rock  had 
been  broken  out  and  pounded.  Ducie  won 
dered  at  these  places,  but  she  did  not  stop, 
for  Bounce  plunged  on  and  on  along  the 
gurgling  run  until  Ducie's  heart  began  to 
come  up  into  her  throat ;  she  knew  that  this 
stream  would  flow  into  another,  whose  source 
was  in  her  father's  cave.  Which  way  would 
the  men  have  taken,  toward  the  cave  or  down 
the  new  ravine? 

Bounce  went  so  excitedly  now  that  she  had 
to  run  to  keep  near  him.  The  briars  tore 
her,  and  she  bruised  her  feet  as  she  leaped 


TALES  87 

from  stone  to  stone.  She  did  not  smell  the 
young  hickory  leaves  that  brushed  against 
her,  nor  see  the  fresh,  tempting  growth  of 
sassafras;  she  simply  strained  her  eyes  for 
ward  as  if  she  expected  to  see  the  men  still 
standing  at  the  turning  of  the  ways.  Bounce 
reached  the  cave  stream  before  her,  sniffed 
the  air  a  moment,  and  turned  toward  the 
cave. 

Ducie  stood  still,  balanced  on  a  stone  and 
trying  to  catch  her  breath ;  a  weight  seemed 
pressing  her,  against  which  her  heart  could 
scarcely  beat.  "  I  set  'em  on  the  track,"  she 
thought;  "I  set  'em  on  the  track  er  pore 
pap's  cave."  In  the  instant's  pause  she  heard 
a  hammer  ringing  out  on  something  hard, 
and  she  realized  that  she  had  been  hearing 
it  more  faintly  as  she  ran.  "  Are  they  er- 
breakin'  up  the  still?"  she  gasped. 

Springing  forward  again,  she  ran  straight 
up  the  rough  bed  of  the  stream,  rather  than 
fight  her  way  through  the  undergrowth. 
Bounce  was  barking  with  keen,  faithless  de 
light.  She  heard  the  voice  of  Hodges  wel 
coming  him :  "  Good  old  fellow,  found  us  out 
again  —  good  boy  !  " 

Ducie  turned  an  angle  of  the  stream  and 
came  upon  them.  They  were  bending  down 
and  washing  something  in  a  pan.  The 
entrance  of  the  cave  was  only  a  few  rods 


88          THE   MOUNTAIN    GOLD 

away,  a  black  hole  among  the  bushes,  but 
they  did  not  seem  to  see  it  or  to  know. 

"  You  —  you  sha'n't  go  no  further  !  " 
Ducie  cried,  rushing  past  them  and  standing 
breathless  in  the  stream,  the  water  coming 
nearly  to  her  knees,  her  arms  outspread. 

"  Well !  "  Burnham  said,  dropping  his 
pan  upon  the  bank  and  straightening  up 
in  wonder. 

Hodges  went  near  to  her  with  a  kindly 
look.  "  My  poor  child,  what  do  you  think 
we  are  doing?  "  he  asked. 

"  You're  —  revenue  —  officers,"  Ducie 
panted. 

"  What  do  these  things  have  to  do  with 
revenue  officers?"  he  asked  again.  "  I  told 
you  the  simple  truth  this  morning :  we  are 
prospecting  for  gold." 

Ducie  put  her  hand  to  her  head  and  turned 
to  clamber  up  the  bank.  "  Gold  !  "  she 
murmured,  "  up  in  this  hyar  mounting  — 
gold?" 

Hodges  helped  her  and  steadied  her  a 
moment.  "  Yes,"  he  answered,  "gold;  and 
at  last  we  seem  to  have  struck  a  paying 
vein." 

"  But  hit  ain't  yourn,"  a  man's  voice  said 
sharply,  behind  them.  They  turned  and  saw 
Hank  Jerdon  coming  out  through  the  under 
growth.  "  This  land's  mine,  and  for  two 


TALES  89 

year  I  been  workin'  out  the  gold  in  that  thar 
cave." 

"  Pappy  !  "  Ducie  cried,  starting  to  run  to 
him.  She  stopped  half  way  and  her  head 
fell.  "  Oh,  pappy,  I  been  er-faultin'  you- 
uns  all  this  time  when  you  was  on'y  diggin' 
gold  !  " 

The  rude  keenness  of  the  mountaineer's 
face  softened  a  little.  He  went  to  the  child 
and  patted  her  clumsily  on  her  bare  tangled 
head. 

"  Look  here,"  Burnham  said  to  him,  "  I've 
seen  men  washing  out  gold  all  by  themselves 
in  these  mountains,  and  they  never  made 
more  than  a  few  dollars  a  day;  don't  you 
want  to  sell  us  an  interest  in  your  land  here, 
and  let  us  put  in  a  little  machinery?" 

Jerdon  looked  him  over  cautiously.  "  An' 
so  yore  interest  in  revenue  war  in  the  form 
of  gold,"  he  said,  gaining  time  while  he 
thought. 

"We've  heard  about  this  mountain  gold 
for  years,"  Hodges  explained,  "  and  we've 
known  people  who  came  down  here  and  got 
up  big  companies  and  failed,  but  we've  made 
up  our  minds  that  there's  some  little  money 
in  it,  and  if  this  belongs  to  you  we'd  like  to 
buy  you  out  or  take  a  share." 

Ducie  caught  her  father's  hand  and  clung 
to  it  for  all  the  world  as  if  she  were  little 


90          THE   MOUNTAIN    GOLD 

Rinth.  The  sunlight  shifted  and  flickered  on 
her  upturned  face.  "  Oh,  pap,  an'  then  we- 
uns  could  move  back  to  the  Holler !  "  she 
pleaded. 

"  I've  done  a  heap  er  projectin'  'bout'n 
that  thar  gold,"  Hank  Jerdon  answered,  star 
ing  at  the  ground,  "  but  when  all's  said,  I  was 
on'y  studyin'  to  git  mo'  money  fer  you  an' 
Rinthy,  an'  hit  ain't  been  much  fun  er  workin' 
hit  by  myse'f."  He  stopped  awhile,  and 
when  he  looked  up  at  the  men  his  face  was 
twitching.  The  gold  that  he  had  guarded  as 
a  secret  hope  was  very  hard  to  share.  "  I'll 
have  to  have  some  reference  that  you-uns  is 
straight  an'  hones',"  he  said,  "  an'  after  that 
I'll  sell  you  a  half  pardnership  in  this  hyar 
vein.  Yes,  Ducie,  an'  you-uns  can  live  in  the 
Holler  if  you  admire  to,  or  any  place  else,  I 
reckon  "  — 

Ducie  gave  a  hard,  tearless  sob.  Her 
father's  face  lighted  up  whimsically.  "  So  ! 
so  !  "  he  said,  stroking  her  down  as  if  she 
were  a  nervous  colt.  "  That's  all  right, 
Ducie,  I  got  a  little  mad  'ith  you-uns  fer 
thinkin'  you  knowed  more'n  I  did  when  we 
moved  up  hyar,  an'  that's  the  reason  er  my 
never  lettin'  on  bout'n  the  gold.  Hit  war 
plumb  sneakin'  er  me,  honey,  but  I  war  tickled 
'mos'  to  death  whenever  you-uns  got  to 
worryin'  over  that  thar  still  what  I  ain't  never 


TALES  91 

had.  But  hit's  all  right,  though  I've  projected 
a  mighty  sight  whilst  I  war  workin'  all  alone 
in  that  thar  cave." 

But  Ducie  sank  down  beside  Bounce,  who 
had  come  slinking  in  between  them.  "  Oh, 
I  been  er  faultin'  you-uns  an'  pappy,"  she 
moaned,  hugging  him  tight  in  her  remorse 
and  joy;  "  I  kep'  er  faultin'  everybody  when 
Rinth  said  I  hadn't  no  call  to,  an'  you-uns 
war  thes  er  doin'  yore  bes'  to  let  on  to  me 
that  hit  war  all  'bout'n  innercent  diggin'  fer 
gold  !  " 


THE   ALARM   BELL 

LEAVES  drifted  over  the  old  Walden 
house  as  if  they  were  hushing  it,  though 
there  was  very  little  life  in  it  to  hush.  They 
lay  in  red  and  yellow  scrolls  across  the 
porches,  they  flecked  the  gabled  roof  and 
brimmed  the  mossy  eave-troughs,  fluttering 
down  from  them  like  the  last  drops  of  a 
shower  which  the  clearing  breeze  wafts  as 
they  fall. 

Lorraine  Walden  had  been  standing  on  the 
south  porch  and  looking  out  until  it  seemed 
as  if  another  falling  leaf  would  break  her 
heart.  The  leaves  rose  now  and  then  and 
moved  from  place  to  place  in  little  whisper 
ing  flights,  and  sometimes  an  eddy  of  them 
danced  clear  across  the  yard  between  the 
straight  gray  tree-trunks,  and  out  of  sight 
down  the  long  slope  toward  the  bluff.  For 
one  last  moment  the  west  shone  out  in  a 
golden  brightness,  and  then  the  hills  shut  off 
the  sun.  It  was  the  most  silent  of  autumn 
twilights.  Lorraine  could  hear  the  rattle 
and  creak  of  wagons  passing  in  the  road,  and 


TALES  93 

she  wished  that  any  living  soul  would  think 
of  her  and  come  walking  in  through  the 
leaves  which  lay  knee  deep  in  the  sunken 
pathway  to  the  gate.  She  remembered  when 
she  herself  had  first  come  along  that  path. 
Abby  had  met  her  at  the  door  almost  with 
out  a  word,  but  Great-grandmother  Walden, 
lying  waxen  white  up  in  her  bed,  had  reached 
out  a  thin  hand  to  her,  and  had  called  her 
by  a  name  that  was  not  hers.  Perhaps  it  was 
years  and  perhaps  it  was  centuries  ago.  Old 
Abby  and  Grandmother  Walden  were  the 
same  to-day  as  they  were  then,  and  Lorraine 
told  herself  with  a  shudder  that  they  would 
still  be  the  same  after  she  was  dead.  She 
smiled  a  little  at  the  thought  of  dying.  "  At 
least,"  she  told  herself,  "  if  I  were  to  do  that 
there  would  be  no  one  to  keep  Abby  from 
ringing  the  alarm  bell,  and  that  would  be  a 
change." 

The  bell  hung  above  her  with  a  year's 
growth  of  grape  vine  tangling  its  cord.  If 
she  were  to  ring  it  now  the  people  from  the 
road  and  from  all  the  farms  near  by  would 
come  running  in  to  ask  her  what  had  hap 
pened,  and  she  would  tell  them  that  she  was 
lonely,  that  was  all.  She  raised  her  hand 
and  softly  clasped  it  round  the  cord,  and  laid 
her  cheek  against  her  hand.  A  tremor  passed 
through  the  swathing  of  leaves  and  tendrils, 


94  THE   ALARM   BELL 

and  the  great  bell  answered  with  a  dim,  half- 
wakened  tone. 

Lorraine  had  not  meant  to  ring  the  bell. 
She  dropped  the  cord  and  ran  swiftly  in 
doors  to  see  if  her  grandmother  had  been 
frightened  by  its  soft,  unexpected  "  Ian." 

The  mistress  and  the  care-taker  were  sleep 
ing,  and  neither  of  them  had  heard.  Abby's 
white  head  was  bowed  upon  her  breast,  and 
her  arms  hung  relaxed  along  the  arms  of  her 
chair.  She  was  so  deep  in  unconsciousness 
that  she  did  not  notice  Lorraine's  entrance, 
but  Grandmother  Walden  wakened,  and,  lift 
ing  her  head  a  little,  seemed  to  listen  while 
her  lips  parted  into  a  sympathetic  smile. 
Perhaps  the  note  of  the  bell  had  reached  her 
without  her  knowledge,  or  perhaps  she  was 
hearkening  to  the  echo  of  some  much  more 
distant  sound,  for  her  sleep  was  so  light  and 
flitting  that  she  passed  constantly  back  and 
forth,  scarcely  feeling  the  transition  through 
the  open  door  of  dreams. 

Lorraine  laid  her  hand  on  Abby's  shoulder 
and  roused  her  to  go  away  for  her  time  of 
rest.  Grandmother  Walden  turned  with  un 
usual  alertness  and  took  note  of  the  new 
face. 

"Is  that  you,  Sibyl?  I'm  thankful  that 
you've  come,"  she  said.  "  They've  been 
having  some  very  old,  feeble  person  sitting 


TALES  95 

here  beside  me,  and  she  seemed  to  sleep  the 
best  part  of  the  time." 

Her  head  sank  into  the  pillows  and  her 
own  eyes  closed  again,  but  soon  she  opened 
them.  "  Sibyl,"  she  began  in  her  faint  remi 
niscent  voice,  "  I've  been  thinking  of  the  day 
the  bells  rang  for  Roger  Foxhall's  wedding. 
Do  you  remember?  Every  one  called  them 
the  bells  of  joy." 

At  most  times  Lorraine  would  have  acqui 
esced.  Just  now  it  was  part  of  her  discon 
tent  to  lean  forward  and  say  softly,  but 
clearly,  "  I  think,  mother,  that  I  was  not  yet 
born."  She  had  fallen  into  a  way  of  answer 
ing  according  to  the  name  which  was  given 
her,  and  even  now  she  said  "  mother  "  from 
habit,  and  then  sighed  bitterly,  feeling  that 
every  effort  to  escape  from  the  past  was  use 
less  when  she  had  grown  into  one  of  its 
ghosts.  Sibyl  was  her  Great-grandmother 
Walden's  daughter,  her  own  young  grand 
mother,  dead  these  fifty  years.  More  than 
one  daughter  and  granddaughter  and  even 
great-granddaughter  had  lived  their  lives  to 
an  end  in  caring  for  Grandmother  Walden, 
and  still  her  pale  existence  flickered  on  in 
the  room  that  looked  to  the  east  across  the 
hills.  She  had  been  very  kindly  and  very 
patient  —  patient  even  with  the  tragic  length 
of  days  which  gave  her  so  much  mourning. 


96  THE   ALARM   BELL 

But  grief  had  all  gone  by.  The  dead  lived 
in  reversed  succession  as  her  failing  mind 
turned  backward  to  the  past,  and  one  after 
another  Lorraine  bore  all  their  names.  Sibyl 
was  very  quaint  and  sweet  —  she  liked  it 
rather  best  of  all.  She  rose  and  began  to 
walk  to  and  fro  across  the  room,  pausing 
once  at  the  bedside  to  repeat,  "  It  was  before 
I  was  born,  mother.  I  don't  remember  any 
bells  of  joy." 

The  old  woman  sighed  in  her  turn,  but 
softly.  "  It  is  my  poor  memory,"  she  said. 
"  The  days  pass  and  the  years  pass,  and  it  is 
very  hard  to  remember  when  things  were. 
Now  that  you  speak  of  it,  I  recollect  that  you 
were  only  a  baby  in  my  arms.  Such  a  pretty 
baby,  Sibyl,  —  the  prettiest  child  I  ever  had. 
Your  father  told  me  that  you  favored  me." 

"  I  think  I  did,  mother,"  Lorraine  answered, 
looking  at  the  face  on  the  pillow  and  then 
into  a  mirror  at  her  own  face.  In  the  mono 
chrome  of  twilight  they  were  of  the  same 
luminous  pallor.  She  gazed  at  herself  for  a 
while  as  a  friend  who  knew  the  story  of  the 
house  might  have  gazed  at  her,  and  then, 
leaning  forward,  she  kissed  the  wan  girl 
whom  she  pitied  so,  and  the  touch  of  the  glass 
was  like  the  touch  of  her  grandmother's  lips. 

"  It  was  this  way,"  said  Grandmother  Wai- 
den,  in  whose  mind  the  images  had  grouped 


TALES  97 

themselves  at  last.  "  I  can  recall  now  just 
how  it  was.  Roger  Foxhall  lived  over  on 
the  east  side  of  the  country,  twenty  miles 
away,  and  he  was  a  good  man.  Yes,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  queer  tone  of  partisanship 
creeping  into  her  weak  voice,  "  there  were 
those  who  didn't  believe  it  at  one  time,  but 
I  was  always  satisfied  that  Roger  Foxhall 
walked  just  in  the  path  that  God  had  laid 
aside  for  him  to  walk.  I  told  my  uncle  so 
when  he  was  the  most  bitterly  set  against 
him.  'You'll  live  to  thank  God,'  I  said, 
'  for  having  made  your  daughter  love  so 
good  a  man.'  And  Roger  Foxhall  knew  that 
I  had  spoken  for  him."  The  old  voice  trem 
bled  to  the  verge  of  tears  at  some  remem 
bered  sign  of  gratitude,  and  then  it  sank  into 
a  whisper  which  Lorraine  could  not  follow 
unless  she  bent  her  ear.  Roger  Foxhall — it 
was  a  name  she  had  not  heard  before,  and 
there  was  a  vital  sound  about  it,  but  she 
knew  that  somewhere  now  it  was  written  on 
a  gravestone,  and  that  knowledge  was  enough. 
She  began  moving  soundlessly  about  the 
room,  lighting  the  shaded  lamp  and  laying 
a  single  stick  of  wood  upon  the  fire  which 
had  sunk  into  a  bed  of  coals. 

Grandmother  Walden's  thread  of  story 
broke  in  two.  "  Sibyl !  "  she  called,  "  there's 
a  strange  light  sprung  on  to  the  ceiling !  " 


98  THE   ALARM   BELL 

"  Only  the  lamp-light,  mother,"  Lorraine 
answered,  as  she  had  answered  every  evening 
since  she  came.  "  And  there  isn't  any  smell 
of  smoke  either,  mother,"  she  went  on,  "  and 
everything  is  safe." 

Grandmother  Walden  stared  up  at  the 
ceiling  with  a  look  of  unbelief.  The  dread 
of  fire  had  long  ago  become  a  fixed  idea  to 
her  helplessness,  and  all  her  other  thoughts 
went  circling  in  a  wandering  orbit  round  it, 
and  were  ruled  by  it.  "  It  is  a  very  strange 
light,"  she  said  again,  and  still  she  lay  star 
ing  up  at  it  until  her  memories  crept  back  like 
kindly  shadows  and  her  story  murmured  on. 

Lorraine  turned  to  the  window  and,  draw 
ing  the  curtain  behind  her,  looked  out  against 
the  night,  which  was  falling  solid  now  and 
dark,  except  for  the  few  stars  that  glimmered 
above  the  black  massing  of  the  trees.  She 
could  hear  her  grandmother's  voice  rise  once 
in  a  while  and  fall  again,  and  sometimes  her 
ears  caught  words  or  sentences  which  did 
not  enter  to  her  brain.  The  love  of  service 
for  the  mere  sake  of  serving,  the  tenderness 
which  had  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  her  nature 
and  had  made  the  time  pass  peacefully 
enough  until  this  mood,  now  dropped  away 
from  her  like  a  garment,  and  her  soul  found 
itself  thin  and  naked  and  shivering  in  the 
loneliness  of  night. 


TALES  99 

She  did  not  know  how  long  she  stood 
there.  It  seemed  as  if  the  world  had  turned, 
and  had  shown  her  every  side  of  the  empty 
universe  many  times,  before  a  great  flake 
of  brightness  sailed  through  the  air  above 
her  and  disappeared  among  the  trees.  She 
watched  it  idly,  yet  with  a  certain  interest 
because  it  was  so  different  from  the  dark. 
Another  flake  came  following  it,  and  then 
another,  and  then  a  flickering  burst  of  light 
touched  all  the  trees.  Lorraine  came  to 
herself  with  her  hand  pressed  tight  against 
her  heart,  and  ran  silently  out  of  the  room, 
down  the  stairs,  and  out-of-doors. 

A  pillar  of  flame  rose  from  the  west 
chimney  where  the  kitchen  wing  joined  the 
main  body  of  the  house,  and  the  burning 
soot  mounted  out  of  the  flame  and  then  set 
tled  slowly  through  the  almost  stirless  air, 
burning  on  like  great  red  glow-worms  on  the 
roof  and  in  the  grass.  The  roar  of  the  fire 
in  the  chimney  surged  in  the  girl's  ears,  and 
she  ran  toward  the  bell.  But  with  her  hand 
on  the  cord  —  as  it  had  been  so  short  a  time 
before  —  her  own  warnings  to  Abby  stopped 
her  short  before  she  rang.  Abby  had  grown 
childish  and  nervous,  so  that  she  would  have 
rushed  to  sound  alarm  whenever  a  mouse 
ran  across  the  floor  through  the  silence  or  a 
brand  shattered  in  the  fireplace,  if  Lorraine 


ioo  THE   ALARM   BELL 

had  not  been  there  to  guard  the  bell.  And 
Lorraine  had  guarded  it  until  the  impulse 
changed  to  habit,  and  the  habit  to  a  super 
stition  that  whenever  the  bell  rang  her  grand 
mother  would  die  —  for  it  would  take  no 
more  than  the  clashing  of  a  bell  to  over- 
weigh  the  even  balance  between  life  and 
death. 

She  stood  with  her  arm  lifted,  trembling 
between  two  fears.  It  was  only  a  burning 
chimney  —  but  there  was  her  grandmother 
helpless  in  her  bed,  and  Abby,  who  would 
scarcely  be  of  greater  aid  if  this  soft  rain  of 
brightness  caught  the  gray  old  shingles  or 
the  drifting  leaves.  The  flame-lit  trees  glowed 
ruddier  than  by  daylight,  and  now  it  was 
scintillating  fire  which  they  seemed  to  shed. 
Lorraine  took  a  deep  breath,  tightening  her 
hold  upon  the  rope.  Once  more  the  bell 
murmured  plaintively,  and  then  she  dropped 
the  cord.  Low  and  metrical  and  solemn, 
through  the  stillness  she  heard  the  hoof-beats 
of  a  horse. 

There  was  scarcely  need  to  run  down  the 
deep  path  to  the  gate  when  such  a  beacon 
of  danger  was  flaring  from  the  chimney-top, 
but  Lorraine  ran,  calling  out  into  the  dark. 
The  galloping  horse  stopped  within  reach  of 
her  hand ;  a  man  sprang  down  and  fastened 
the  hitching-strap  around  the  gate-post  while 


TALES  101 

she  opened  the  gate  for  him  silently.  He 
came  through,  and  the  flicker  of  the  mount 
ing  flame  showed  him  tall  and  strong. 

"Are  you  alone  here?"  he  asked  in  a 
stranger's  voice. 

"  As  far  as  help  goes,"  Lorraine  said,  keep 
ing  abreast  of  his  stride  along  the  path.  "  My 
grandmother  is  ill  upstairs,  and  there  is  an 
old  housekeeper.  Neither  of  them  knows 
about  the  fire,  and  I  hope  they  will  not  have 
to,  for  it  would  frighten  them  almost  to 
death." 

"  Show  me  where  your  well  is,  and  bring 
me  all  the  quilts  and  blankets  that  you  have," 
the  stranger  said.  "  A  ladder,"  he  added, 
when  Lorraine  had  brought  him  load  after 
load  of  bedding  and  he  had  drenched  it  at 
the  well. 

"  Here,"  she  answered,  and  led  the  way. 
He  ran  up  the  ladder  and  spread  the  dripping 
blankets  out  upon  the  roof,  while  Lorraine 
climbed  up  and  down,  fetching  more  for  him 
until  the  last  one  had  been  spread.  Strength 
and  life  rose  in  her,  making  her  feet  swift  and 
her  muscles  tireless.  When  she  had  carried 
all  the  blankets  she  walked  over  them  up  the 
steep  pitch  of  the  roof  with  as  unerring  a 
step  as  the  stranger,  and  they  looked  together 
to  see  if  the  timbers  through  which  the 
chimney  passed  were  likely  to  take  fire. 


102  THE  ALARM   BELL 

"  All  right  for  the  present,"  the  man  said, 
and  they  stood  still  for  a  moment  watching 
the  undiminished  volume  of  flame  roll  out 
above  them.  Its  heat  burned  their  faces, 
and  its  light  showed  them  to  each  other  — 
young,  resolute,  of  the  kind  that  one  may 
trust. 

He  started  down  the  roof,  holding  out  an 
arm  to  make  a  bar  if  she  should  slip.  "  I 
see  that  you  are  afraid  of  nothing,"  he  said. 

"  I  am  sure-footed  to-night,"  Lorraine  an 
swered,  but  her  hand  was  trembling  as  he 
took  it  to  help  her  over  the  crumbling  eave- 
trough  until  she  was  safe  upon  the  ladder. 

"  We  shall  manage  this,"  he  said  earnestly. 
"There  is  very  little  danger  now;  it  can  just 
burn  on." 

"Oh,  I  know!"  Lorraine  said.  "I  am 
not  at  all  afraid." 

She  hurried  down  on  to  the  south  porch  to 
listen  for  the  sound  of  her  grandmother's 
slender  stick  striking  upon  the  floor  beside 
her  bed.  Grandmother  Walden's  hands  were 
feeble,  and  the  stick  was  old  and  light  and 
dry,  for  it  had  been  tied  there  at  the  bedside 
before  Lorraine  was  born  ;  and  yet  the  hollow, 
silent  house  took  up  the  tap,  tap,  tap,  of  her 
summons,  and  carried  it  from  room  to  room 
whenever  she  wished  for  anything,  or  if  she 
noticed  that  she  had  been  left  alone.  Some- 


TALES  103 

times  its  message  reached  Lorraine  when  she 
had  wandered  out  among  the  trees  into  the 
farthest  part  of  the  great  yard.  The  fallen 
leaves  rustled  about  her  as  she  ran  swiftly 
back,  and  she  felt  that  she  was  spirit  answer 
ing  spirit  in  some  dumb  language  of  the 
dead.  She  had  never  been  upon  the  roof 
before.  She  did  not  know  if  she  could  have 
heard  the  tapping  there,  and  Abby's  dim 
ears  might  not  have  heard.  There  was  no 
sound  upon  the  porch,  but  to  be  quite  certain 
she  went  up  to  the  door.  It  opened  into 
silence,  darkness,  and  an  outpouring  smoke 
that  made  her  gasp. 

The  stranger  came  up,  and  they  went 
inside.  "  It  is  only  smoke  yet,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  Thank  Heaven  !  I  cannot  see  my 
way."  And  yet  he  walked  through  the 
house  as  if  he  knew  its  turnings,  for  the  roar 
of  the  chimney  guided  him.  In  the  kitchen 
the  smoke  was  still  more  dense,  but  there  was 
no  flame,  only  a  reflected  glow  from  above 
which  shone  out  through  the  stove.  Lorraine 
lighted  a  lamp,  and  they  could  see  the  smoke 
pouring  down  through  the  cracks  of  the 
wooden  ceiling  which  shut  off  a  loft  under 
the  slant  of  the  roof. 

"Is  there  any  way  to  get  in  there?"  the 
stranger  asked,  pointing  up. 

"None,"   said    Lorraine.     "It  is   a  closed 


104  THE   ALARM   BELL 

space."  The  tears  were  brimming  in  her 
eyes  from  the  smoke,  and  her  face  looked 
ashen  through  it." 

"  Then  I  must  make  a  way,"  he  said. 
"  Either  a  defect  in  the  flue  is  letting  out  the 
smoke,  or  else  the  dry  wood  is  beginning  to 
burn.  Get  me  an  axe  and  then  bring  water 
in  everything  you  can  carry." 

He  brought  the  ladder,  leaned  it  against 
the  wall,  and  took  the  axe.  Lorraine  was 
gathering  pails  for  water.  "  Ought  I  to  ring 
for  more  help  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  am  afraid 
it  would  kill  my  grandmother  to  hear  the 
bell." 

He  stopped  half  way  between  floor  and 
ceiling  and  looked  down  into  her  face,  meas 
uring  what  cause  she  had  for  such  a  fear. 
What  he  saw  was  the  overstrain  and  weird- 
ness  of  long  watching.  "  At  least,"  he  said, 
"  we  will  wait  until  I  have  cut  through  into 
the  loft.  You  and  I  can  do  a  great  deal  to 
put  out  a  fire  by  ourselves." 

She  took  two  water-pails  and  ran  from  the 
room.  "It  is  not  time  yet,"  she  said  as  she 
drew  the  water  swiftly.  "  It  is  not  time  yet 
to  ring  the  bell."  The  words  had  come  into 
her  head  from  nowhere,  and  they  sang  them 
selves  over  and  over  as  she  ran  back  and 
forth  with  the  full  water-pails  and  the  empty 
ones.  The  axe  rang  out  against  the  seasoned 


TALES  105 

boards,  making  the  whole  house  jar  and  vi 
brate.  It  was  like  the  clashing  of  cymbals, 
and  Lorraine  caught  her  breath  and  listened 
between  the  strokes,  but  there  was  no  faint 
echo-like  tapping  from  upstairs.  Her  grand 
mother  did  not  always  take  notice  of  the 
difference  between  night  and  day ;  the  kitchen 
was  the  length  of  the  house  from  her  room, 
and  the  sound  of  an  axe  was  nothing  to 
cause  alarm  by  daylight.  Lorraine  caught 
up  her  burdens  and  ran  toward  the  kitchen. 
To  be  fighting  this  real  danger  without  her 
grandmother's  knowledge  was  an  exhilaration 
which  bore  half  the  weight  of  the  swinging, 
dripping  pails. 

It  took  but  a  few  blows  to  make  room  for 
the  man  to  put  his  head  and  shoulders  into 
the  loft.  The  smoke  came  down  around 
them  in  great  clouds,  as  if  he  himself  were 
upon  fire.  Lorraine  stood  looking  up  at 
him,  her  hands  locked  together,  waiting  for 
his  command.  And  then  by  some  sense 
more  subtle  than  hearing  she  was  aware  of 
another  motion  in  the  house,  and,  turning, 
she  saw  old  Abby  run  past  the  doorway,  her 
white  hair  hanging  on  her  shoulders,  her 
nightgown  fluttering,  and  all  her  features 
wild.  Even  at  that  distance  she  was  running 
with  her  hands  outstretched,  ready  to  ring 
the  bell. 


106  THE   ALARM   BELL 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet !  "  Lorraine  cried, 
rushing  after  her.  She  caught  the  old 
woman  by  her  thin,  bent  shoulders  and  held 
her  still.  Abby  stared  at  her  for  a  moment, 
struggled  against  her  hands,  and  then  burst 
into  tears. 

Lorraine's  clasp  relaxed  to  gentleness. 
"  Don't  be  afraid,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  ring 
the  bell  if  it  is  necessary.  There  is  a  man 
here  who  knows,  and  we  are  taking  every  care. 
Go  back  and  get  on  something  warm,  but 
don't  go  into  grandmother's  room.  Listen  if 
you  hear  her  knocking  and  let  me  know." 

Abby  stood  a  moment  more,  looking  from 
the  girl's  face  to  the  dancing  light  upon  the 
trees.  At  last  she  put  her  hand  up  to  wipe 
away  a  few  of  her  swift-flowing  tears,  and, 
still  sobbing,  turned  back  toward  the  stairs. 
Lorraine  went  into  the  kitchen  with  a  trem 
ulous  loathing  of  her  own  strength.  Poor 
Abby  was  so  frail  a  thing  to  conquer  that  she 
herself  turned  weak  from  head  to  foot. 

The  man  had  come  down  the  ladder  and 
was  carrying  water  up.  "  Bring  more,"  he 
said  to  her.  "  You  and  I  can  manage  this  if  we 
work  fast.  There  is  a  defect,  and  the  heat 
has  set  the  boards  to  smoking  too,  but  the 
fire  is  passing  farther  up  the  chimney  now. 
It  will  soon  be  done." 

She  began  to  carry  the  heavy  pails  up  the 


TALES  107 

ladder,  and  the  refrain  to  which  she  had  filled 
them  came  back  into  her  ears,  measuring  off 
the  steps.  The  smoke  billowed  out  around 
her  so  that  it  did  not  seem  as  if  they  were 
making  way  against  it,  but  she  did  not  ask 
and  the  stranger  did  not  say.  She  was  con 
tent  to  carry  the  water  faster  and  faster  up 
the  hard  rounds  of  the  ladder,  and  to  hear  it 
hiss  upon  the  hot  bricks  and  the  boards,  and 
to  catch  a  breath  now  and  then  of  the  steam 
which  mingled  with  the  smoke.  Without 
knowing  it  she  was  near  to  fainting,  and  some 
times  she  could  not  have  climbed  the  ladder 
again  if  she  had  not  been  saying  to  herself, 
"  It  is  not  time  yet  to  ring  the  bell." 

"  That  will  do,"  the  man  said,  coming 
down.  His  face  was  wet  and  blackened,  but 
he  was  smiling.  "  We've  done  it  by  our 
selves,"  he  went  on,  "  and  the  danger  is  past, 
and  we  can  go  into  the  air." 

Lorraine  followed  him  unsteadily.  "  Are 
you  quite  sure  that  the  danger  is  past?  "  she 
said. 

The  night  lay  dim  around  them  out-of- 
doors,  and  yet  he  stepped  from  the  porch 
and  looked  up  at  the  chimney  before  he 
answered  her. 

"  Quite  sure,"  he  said,  coming  back,  "  and 
now  I  shall  put  things  to  rights  a  little  for 
you  before  I  go  away." 


io8  THE   ALARM   BELL 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  "  I  can  have  all  that 
done  in  the  morning.  Do  you  have  far  to 
go?" 

"  Twenty  miles,"  the  stranger  said. 

Lorraine's  heart  gave  an  unexpected  throb. 
"  What  is  your  name?  "  she  asked. 

"  Roger  Foxhall,"  he  said ;  "  and  if  this  is 
the  old  Walden  place,  as  I  suppose,  we  must 
be  distant  cousins.  My  grandfather  used  to 
tell  me  of  the  Waldens  when  I  was  a  boy. 
It  seems  his  father  married  one  of  them 
against  her  father's  will,  and  there  was  a 
breach  between  them  after  that.  And  then 
of  course  I  have  heard  of  the  old  Mrs. 
Walden  who  has  lived  so  long." 

"  She  is  upstairs  telling  of  how  the  joy  bells 
rang  for  your  great-grandfather's  wedding," 
Lorraine  broke  in  with  a  trembling  voice. 
"  Oh,  it  is  all  so  strange.  It  was  she  who 
took  his  part." 

Roger  Foxhall  smiled  gravely.  "  I  thank 
her  then,"  he  said. 

Lorraine  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  And 
I  thank  you.  I  cannot  ever  tell  you  how  much 
I  thank  you,  not  only  for  the  help  about  the 
fire  "  —  she  paused,  wishing  she  could  tell 
him  how  the  past  had  seemed  to  hold  her 
with  its  suffocating  hands  before  he  came. 
But  the  sight  of  her  face  and  the  few 
words  she  had  said  were  enough  to  make  him 


TALES  109 

partly  understand.  A  great  pity  rose  in  him 
as  he  thought  of  leaving  her  alone  there  in 
the  dark  with  the  old,  old  days. 

"Do  not  thank  me,"  he  said;  "let  me 
come  again." 

"  Oh,  come  !  "  Lorraine  said,  "  for  my  friends 
have  all  forgotten  I  am  here." 

"  I  will  not  forget,"  he  answered,  "  but 
until  I  come,  good-by." 

She  lingered  until  the  sound  of  his  gallop 
ing  horse  had  faded  into  the  beating  of  her 
heart.  Then  she  went  upstairs. 

Old  Abby  was  crouching  with  her  face 
buried  on  her  bed.  Lorraine  stooped  to  kiss 
her.  "  The  fire  is  all  out  and  I  am  going  in 
to  grandmother,"  she  said.  "  Has  grand 
mother  called  you?" 

Abby  lifted  her  white  head  slowly.  "  Not 
as  I  have  heard,"  she  said ;  but  Lorraine  had 
gone. 

Grandmother  Walden  was  lying  waxen 
white  upon  her  bed,  and  she  looked  up  and 
called  Lorraine  by  a  name  that  was  not  hers. 

"  Sibyl,"  she  said,  "  I've  been  thinking  of 
the  day  the  bells  rang  for  Roger  Foxhall's 
wedding.  Do  you  remember?  Every  one 
called  them  the  bells  of  joy." 

"  I  remember,  mother,"  the  girl  said 
simply,  and  stole  back  down  the  stairs. 
Everything  had  passed  without  her  grand- 


no  THE   ALARM    BELL 

mother's  knowledge,  and  she  was  still  among 
the  memories,  needing  no  other  care.  The 
darkness  fell  like  a  curtain  behind  Lorraine 
as  she  closed  the  door  on  all  the  past. 

"  Roger  Foxhall,"  she  murmured  as  she 
looked  up  at  the  stars  which  glimmered  above 
the  black  massing  of  the  trees.  Her  hand 
stole  up  and  found  the  bell-rope  swaying 
softly,  but  the  bell  hung  silent  above  her, 
wreathed  in  tangled  vine,  and  she  wondered 
if  she  had  been  guarding  it  through  all  the 
years  to  be  a  bell  of  joy. 

A  tremor  passed  through  the  swathing  of 
leaves  and  tendrils,  and  the  great  bell 
answered  with  a  sweet,  half-wakened  tone. 


THE    HILDRETHS'    WEDDING-DAY 

A  GIRL  came  from  the  bayou  along  a 
little  trail  which  passed  through  the 
marsh,  on  bits  of  silvery  cypress-drift,  and 
through  the  woods  where  brown  pine-needles 
carpeted  it,  up  to  the  Hildreth  garden.  The 
crape-myrtles  stood  stiff  as  sentinels  beside 
the  gate,  but  the  walk  led  up  between  its 
borders  in  confident  welcome  to  a  blank 
open  space,  all  gray  and  powdery,  as  if  it 
had  never  seen  the  sunlight  or  felt  moisture. 
The  girl  stood  breathless,  gazing  at  it.  The 
last  of  the  spring  roses  scattered  their  petals 
lavishly  around  the  beds,  and  added  their 
fragrance  to  the  sweetness  of  the  Cape  jas 
mine  and  the  tiny  fluffy  balls  of  the  acacias, 
but  the  Hildreth  house  was  gone.  The 
hollyhocks  and  the  high  shrubs  seemed  to  be 
lifting  themselves  on  tiptoe  to  look  down  at 
the  scar  where  it  had  been.  The  breeze 
sighed  a  little  through  the  great  live-oak 
which  had  spent  years  in  spreading  wide  and 
generous  to  shade  the  whole  south  gallery, 
and  the  mocking-birds  flitted  in  and  out  of  its 
branches  with  that  swift  spreading  of  their 


ii2   HILDRETHS'   WEDDING-DAY 

wings  for  flight  which  makes  the  white  bars 
in  them  always  a  revelation.  After  she  had 
seen  these  things  with  widening  eyes,  the 
girl's  hand  went  up  to  her  throat,  and  she 
gave  a  little  sob. 

"Is  everything  to  change?"  she  asked 
half  brokenly.  Something  in  her  mood  stood 
between  her  and  natural  surprise.  She  felt 
as  if  she  had  been  prepared  to  find  the 
place  like  this,  but  the  tears  rose  in  her  eyes 
as  she  looked,  for  each  familiar  beauty  of  it 
was  something  bereaved.  She  opened  the 
gate  and  walked  between  the  rose  bushes 
toward  the  spot  where  the  house  had  been, 
but  when  she  reached  it  she  turned  away. 
She  threaded  all  the  bowery  paths,  and  each 
seemed  to  hold  something  which  she  must 
turn  away  from,  too  ;  but  when  she  stood  by 
the  acacia  tree  she  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  it  timidly.  Soon,  as  it  did  not  forbid 
her,  she  lifted  her  hand,  drew  down  a  branch, 
and  picked  just  one  of  the  tiny  yellow  tufts 
which  breathe  all  the  sweetness  of  the  sweet 
est  days  of  love,  held  it  against  her  cheek 
for  a  moment,  and  then,  with  trembling 
fingers,  hid  it  in  the  dark  braids  of  her  hair. 

A  faint  "  yo-heave-o,"  like  that  of  sailors 
hauling  up  an  anchor,  was  wafted  through 
the  garden,  and  the  girl  raised  her  face 
and  looked  about  her  desolately.  Far  down 


TALES  113 

Live-oak  lane,  between  the  rounded  trees, 
she  saw  the  Hildreth  house.  It  seemed  to 
have  picked  up  its  doorsteps  and  started 
out  across  the  village ;  there  was  an  excited 
gleam  in  its  windows,  and  the  sunlight,  fall 
ing  more  freely  on  its  roof  than  it  had  ever 
done  in  the  garden,  gave  it  the  look  of  some 
tenderly  shielded  old  person  that  has  stolen 
bareheaded  away  from  loving  children,  who 
do  not  remember  that  age  has  its  restlessness. 

The  girl  could  notice  now  that  a  way  had 
been  cleared  for  the  house  to  travel  back 
ward  out  of  the  garden,  leaving  the  flowers 
courteously,  as  if  they  were  a  royal  presence  ; 
and  she  followed  in  its  path  through  the 
opened  panel  of  fence  and  on  into  the  lane, 
where  the  blue  shimmer  of  the  Gulf  ended 
the  vistas  of  light  on  either  side  of  the  house. 
She  walked  eagerly,  and  her  face  had  dim 
pled  into  smiles,  yet  even  as  she  smiled 
she  put  her  hand  up  to  her  hair,  and  the 
depths  of  her  eyes  still  kept  their  sorrow. 
"  I  don't  see  how  Mrs.  Hildreth  could  leave 
her  flowers,"  she  said  once,  with  a  sigh. 

A  band  of  Creole  workmen  were  prying 
the  house  along  on  its  clumsy  rollers,  and 
shouting  and  singing  resonantly  at  each  slow 
forward  lurch.  Their  voices  had  the  sweet 
ness  of  a  summer  land  and  knowledge  of  the 
sea,  and  they  worked  at  leisure  and  grace- 


ii4     HILDRETHS'    WEDDING-DAY 

fully,  their  red  or  blue  shirts  shining  out 
against  the  greenery  which  still  clung  to  the 
Hildreth  house,  for  it  had  not  laid  aside  its 
vines,  but  was  carrying  their  roots  daintily 
clear  of  the  ground  in  baskets,  just  as  another 
dear  old  fugitive  might  lift  her  skirts. 

A  woman  with  rosy  cheeks  and  smooth 
brown  hair  was  sitting  by  the  window,  and  as 
the  girl  approached  she  reached  down  to 
help  her  take  the  long  step  from  the  road  to 
door-sill.  "  Connie  Bainbridge,"  she  said, 
"  I  don't  know  of  any  one  I  would  rather 
have  come  walking  in  like  this  to  act  as 
bridemaid  on  my  wedding-day,"  and  she 
drew  her  visitor  into  a  room  that  was  start- 
lingly  unchanged  except  for  the  glory  of 
flowers  with  which  the  garden  had  said 
good-by.  It  was  hard  to  remember  that  in 
the  garden  they  had  not  been  missed  at  all. 

The  girl  sank  into  a  chair  and  looked  about 
her  wearily.  A  long  string  of  gull's  eggs, 
creamy  and  softly  flecked,  hung  near  her  on 
the  wall.  She  took  hold  of  them  as  she  so 
often  had  before,  and  passed  them  through 
her  fingers  like  a  rosary.  "  Your  wedding- 
day?"  she  said. 

"Anniversary,  of  course,  I  mean,"  Mrs. 
Hildreth  answered,  looking  out  through  a 
window  that  gave  a  glimpse  of  the  beckon 
ing  sea.  She  smiled  musingly  as  she  looked. 


TALES  115 

There  was  always  something  of  generous  con 
tent  about  her,  as  if  life  grew  sweeter  and 
broader  with  the  afternoon  sun  ;  and  Connie 
Bainbridge  remembered  that  when  the  house 
had  stood  in  its  garden  she  herself  had  never 
lifted  the  gate-latch  and  walked  in  between 
the  roses  without  leaving  every  care  behind. 
But  now  her  heart  had  learned  a  different 
way.  She  took  down  the  great  rosary  so 
that  she  might  bend  her  head  over  it. 
"What  is  happening?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Hildreth  looked  at  her,  noticing  the 
tone.  "  You  see,  we  always  celebrate  each 
wedding-day,"  she  said.  "When  we  come  to 
the  rounded  numbers,  we  invite  people,  and 
do  as  they  expect  us  to ;  but  on  the  other 
years,  that  most  people  forget,  we  do  justwhat 
we  please  —  Robbie  and  I.  Robbie  has  just 
gone  over  to  the  village,  but  he'll  soon  be 
home.  This  is  our  twenty-ninth  wedding-day, 
and  we're  moving  to  the  sea.  You  know, 
when  we  were  first  married  we  wanted  a 
building  site  on  the  beach,  and  we  couldn't 
afford  it.  Now  we  can,  and  so  we're  cele 
brating."  She  paused,  looking  curiously  at 
Connie's  face,  which  was  turned  away  from 
her.  When  she  went  on  there  was  a  soft 
laugh  in  her  voice.  "We  couldn't  move 
without  our  house,  of  course  ;  it's  too  much  a 
part  of  us  —  and,  anyway,  when  we  die  our 


n6     HILDRETHS'    WEDDING-DAY 

shell  may  feel  more  at  home  if  it's  left  on  the 
beach." 

The  girl  tried  to  join  in  Mrs.  Hildreth's 
laugh,  but  when  she  parted  her  lips,  a  low, 
passionate  sob  came  through  them.  She  fell 
on  her  knees  and  bowed  her  head  in  Mrs. 
Hildreth's  lap.  Her  words  came  in  a  gasp. 
"This  was  to  have  been  my  wedding-day," 
she  said. 

Mrs.  Hildreth  put  her  arms  about  her, 
murmuring,  "  My  child  !  " 

"  Yes,"  the  girl  answered,  in  a  hard,  dry 
voice.  "We  decided  to  have  no  one  but 
mamma  and  papa  with  us,  and  then  to 
announce  it  and  take  you  all  by  surprise  — 
now  we  shall  surprise  you  in  another  way,  for 
it  will  never  be  at  all."  She  was  trembling, 
and  she  caught  Mrs.  Hildreth's  dress  in  her 
hands.  "  It  was  my  fault,  of  course,"  she 
finished  ;  "at  least  you  will  all  think  it  was  my 
fault." 

The  joy  of  her  long,  happy  years  shone 
before  Mrs.  Hildreth's  eyes  until  they  blurred. 
She  lifted  the  girl's  face  between  her  hands. 
"Connie  Bainbridge,"  she  said  gently,  "you 
and  Jack  Houghton  are  not  commonplace, 
foolish  children  who  quarrel  for  no  cause. 
Tell  me  all  about  your  trouble,  from  begin 
ning  to  end." 

"  I  couldn't  bear  explaining  it  to  mamma," 


TALES  117 

Connie  Bainbridge  said,  "  and  I  meant  to  say 
nothing  to  any  one,  but  when  you  spoke  like 
that  of  your  wedding-day  "  —  her  voice  broke 
into  the  tone  of  one  whose  heart  yields  itself 
to  sympathy  or  love.  "  Ah,  I  can  tell  every 
thing  to  you,"  she  cried,  "  for  no  one  else  on 
earth  would  know  so  well  what  I  have  thrown 
away." 

Along  the  street  which  led  from  the  centre 
of  the  village  to  the  old  Hildreth  place  the 
great  trees  interlaced  their  restful  shadows, 
letting  only  the  smallest  flecks  of  sunlight  sift 
between  them  in  the  perfect  silence  of  the 
idle  summer  afternoon.  It  was  strange  that 
the  very  shadows  did  not  stir  and  change  a 
little  when  a  sharp  thudding  of  hoofs  and  the 
swing  of  a  horse  broke  through  the  air,  and 
a  young  man  came  riding  at  a  gallop  beneath 
the  trees.  He  held  his  head  high,  and  his 
lips  were  compressed  in  a  way  that  had  noth 
ing  to  do  with  the  swift,  easy  motion  of  the 
horse,  and  there  was  a  frown  above  his  eyes, 
which  were  looking  straight  ahead  with  a  sort 
of  bitter  challenge  in  them  for  all  they  saw 
or  did  not  see.  He  drew  rein  abruptly  at  the 
Hildreth  gate.  The  crape-myrtles  were  wait 
ing  for  him  as  usual,  and  the  sweet  odors  of 
the  garden  spread  out  to  summon  him,  but 
the  straight  path  led  to  vacancy. 

He  gazed  for  a  few  moments  at  the  deso- 


ii8     HILDRETHS'    WEDDING-DAY 

late  square  of  gray  sand,  with  the  sympa 
thetic  flowers  elbowing  one  another  around  it. 
His  thought  told  him  very  simply  what  had 
happened  to  the  house,  but  his  heart  felt 
only  the  symbolism  of  the  place.  He 
dropped  moodily  to  the  ground,  tied  his 
horse,  and  went  in  through  the  gate.  From 
the  back  of  the  garden  he  looked  down 
Live-oak  lane  and  saw  the  house,  while  the 
shouts  of  the  workmen  came  to  him  like  a 
faint  farewell  upon  the  breeze.  They  inter 
ested  him  very  little.  He  went  to  the  open 
space  of  sand  and  lashed  at  it  morosely  with 
his  riding-whip.  "  Is  nobody  in  the  world 
satisfied?"  he  wondered,  lifting  a  savage 
whirl  of  dust  into  the  air. 

"  They'll  be  uprooting  the  roses  next  and 
carrying  them  after  the  house,"  he  went  on, 
turning  his  whip  against  a  tall  bush  which  he 
loved,  and  sending  a  shower  of  pink  petals 
to  the  ground.  He  tramped  across  them 
ruthlessly,  bowed  his  head  under  an  arbor 
of  honeysuckle,  and  whistled  a  note  or  two 
as  he  walked  along  the  paths.  "  I'll  be  glad 
when  the  whole  thing  is  torn  up,"  he  de 
clared  ;  "  it  would  be  useless  to  try  coming 
back  here  any  more."  He  started  to  whistle 
again,  but  broke  off.  "  Perhaps,"  he  mut 
tered  harshly,  "  you  think  you  can  stand 
seeing  the  Hildreths,  when  the  garden  is  too 


TALES  119 

much  for  you  !  "  He  stood  quite  still,  and 
set  his  face  against  the  inroads  of  a  change 
which  left  nothing  in  his  life  untouched. 
The  knowledge  of  all  that  had  gone  from 
him  seemed  to  rise  like  a  tide  about  him, 
until  his  physical  balance  was  unsteadied  by 
it,  and  he  leaned  against  a  tree  and  shut  his 
eyes.  In  that  moment  of  relaxation  his 
senses  were  no  longer  guarded  by  anger,  and 
he  felt  the  soft,  perfumed  air  stealing  over 
him  in  a  caress.  There  were  many  sweet 
odors  in  it,  but  one  of  them  was  more  like  a 
personal  message  than  the  others.  He 
smiled  faintly,  and  opened  his  eyes.  It  was 
the  little  acacia  tree  he  was  leaning  against. 
He  reached  up  for  one  of  the  yellow  balls, 
and  as  he  felt  it  between  his  fingers  a  memory 
of  joy  came  into  his  face.  The  little  thing 
was  like  love  itself,  it  was  so  laden  with 
sweetness.  He  kissed  it  more  than  once, 
and  then,  putting  it  in  his  pocket  with  a 
tender  deference,  he  turned  back  along  the 
path,  and  followed  where  the  house  was  lead 
ing  toward  the  sunlit  vista  of  the  Gulf. 

Robbie  Hildreth  had  returned  from  the 
village  and  was  working  among  the  Creoles, 
but  he  hurried  forward  as  the  young  fellow 
came  up.  Hildreth  was  an  elderly  man 
whom  time  and  the  sun  had  touched  so  often 
and  so  lovingly  that  they  had  blended  all  the 


120     HILDRETHS'   WEDDING-DAY 

colors  of  his  hair  and  face  into  a  tone  of  silver 
gray,  out  of  which  his  blue  eyes  glanced 
humorously  as  he  shook  the  young  fellow's 
hand.  "  Betty  and  I  are  having  a  wedding 
march,  for  the  twenty-ninth  time,"  he  said 
"  and  Betty  is  guarding  all  her  treasures  in 
the  house.  We're  going  to  have  a  wedding 
supper  when  we  get  to  the  beach,  and  you 
must  stay." 

"  I'd  forgotten  that  this  was  your  wedding- 
day,"  the  young  man  said. 

"Why,  whose  else  should  it  be?"  asked 
Hildreth,  laughing.  "Yours?" 

The  young  fellow  looked  at  him  a  moment. 
He  knew  that  behind  Robbie  Hildreth's  merry 
eyes  there  was  one  of  the  gentlest,  truest 
souls.  He  drew  him  a  little  farther  from  the 
workmen.  "  It  was  to  have  been  my  wed 
ding-day,"  he  said. 

Many  people  who  knew  that  the  Hildreth 
house  was  moving  went  out  of  their  way  to 
see  the  place  where  it  had  stood.  Among 
them  was  the  young  minister  who  was  taking 
his  first  charge  in  the  village.  Robbie  Hil 
dreth  and  he  had  met  at  the  post-office,  and 
Hildreth  had  told  him  that  the  moving  was  a 
celebration,  so  he  started  presently  to  call  on 
Mrs.  Hildreth,  and  to  wish  her  constant  joy 
and  as  many  returns  of  the  day  in  the  future 
as  there  had  been  in  the  past.  "  That  would 


TALES  121 

take  them  far  beyond  their  golden  wedding," 
he  thought,  and,  with  a  sudden  realization 
of  the  faithfulness  of  a  love  which  had  lasted 
so  long  and  would  last  so  much  longer  if 
Heaven  spared  them,  he  turned  his  steps  to 
pass  the  garden  where  they  had  lived  to 
gether  for  so  many  years. 

Even  young  ministers  feel  a  rise  and  fall 
of  the  divine  spirit  within  them,  and  as  this 
young  man  stood  by  the  Hildreth  gate  and 
looked  at  the  loneliness  that  was  left  when 
all  the  flowers  clustered  about  an  empty  spot 
of  sand,  a  fresh  understanding  of  the  sacred- 
ness  of  kindly  living  came  to  him  and  filled 
him  with  inspired  humility.  There  seemed 
so  many  warm,  sweet,  simple  truths  to  tell 
the  world,  although  he  felt  himself  almost 
too  young  and  far  too  wisdomless  to  speak. 
"  Twenty-nine  years,"  he  thought,  "  of  one 
of  the  most  actual  tests  of  grace  —  and  I 
have  not  even  reached  the  point  where  they 
began.  I  love  no  one  woman  better  than 
another,  —  perhaps  I  should  thank  God  for 
it,  —  and  I've  never  even  performed  a  mar 
riage  ceremony  in  my  life." 

He  looked  about  him  from  the  site  of  the 
house  to  all  the  things  which  the  Hildreths 
had  been  cherishing  so  long.  "  I  don't  see 
how  they  can  bear  to  leave  their  flowers,"  he 
said,  with  a  little  sigh ;  "  but  then,  as  long  as 


122     HILDRETHS'    WEDDING-DAY 

they  take  their  love  with  them,  more  flowers 
will  grow."  It  seemed  to  the  young  minister 
just  then  that  grace  might  be  less  varying  if 
he  felt  more  of  individual  love ;  but  soon  he 
turned  from  the  gate  and  walked  'round  out 
side  the  garden  and  down  into  Live-oak 
lane,  following  the  house.  He  was  still  a 
very  young  man,  and  pretty  little  speeches 
went  from  him  sometimes,  and  so  as  he 
walked  he  kept  repeating,  "  I  wish  you  con 
stant  joy,  and  as  many  returns  of  the  day  in 
the  future  as  there  have  been  in  the  past." 

He  neared  the  house  and  noticed  how 
daintily  it  had  raised  its  vines  to  move,  and 
he  was  wondering  if  it  would  be  just  the 
thing  for  him  to  tell  Mrs.  Hildreth  how  much 
it  looked  like  her  when  she  came  to  church 
on  wet  or  dusty  mornings ;  but  before  he 
could  decide  he  saw  that  Mr.  Hildreth  was 
standing  several  rods  nearer  to  him  than 
to  the  house,  and  talking  very  earnestly,  with 
his  hand  on  tall  Jack  Houghton's  shoulder. 
The  minister  paused,  for  they  looked  as  if 
they  were  speaking  in  confidence,  and  he 
wished  neither  to  go  forward  and  interrupt 
them  nor  to  retreat.  Just  as  he  paused,  Mrs. 
Hildreth  stepped  down  from  the  house,  fol 
lowed  by  Connie  Bainbridge.  The  minister 
felt  that  it  was  awkward  to  be  standing  there 
in  indecision,  and  he  blushed.  No  one  saw 


TALES  123 

him,  however,  for  Mrs.  Hildreth  and  Connie 
Bainbridge  both  stopped  with  a  startled  look 
at  sight  of  the  two  men  who  were  talking 
together.  There  were  traces  of  tears  about 
Mrs.  Hildreth's  eyes,  and  Connie's  face  was 
white.  They  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and 
then  Connie  shrank  back  toward  the  door, 
but  Mrs.  Hildreth  took  her  hand.  The  girl's 
expression  changed  and  lighted.  She  went 
forward  swiftly  and  touched  young  Houghton 
on  the  arm.  The  minister  turned  away  when 
Houghton,  taken  by  surprise,  and  bending  to 
her,  spoke  her  name. 

Mrs.  Hildreth  and  Robbie  moved  away 
from  them  and  toward  the  minister,  who 
stepped  to  meet  them,  smiling  and  fumbling 
with  his  thoughts,  for  the  words  he  meant  to 
say  were  gone.  It  happened  that  he  did  not 
need  them,  for  Mrs.  Hildreth  turned  back 
and  took  the  other  young  people  in  the  house. 
Robbie  Hildreth's  smile  was  merrier  than 
ever  in  his  eyes.  "  Do  you  know  the  marriage 
service?"  he  asked. 

"Why  —  why,  of  course,"  stammered  the 
minister,  "but  I've  never"  — 

"  Then  it's  time  you  began,"  said  Robbie 
Hildreth,  and  he  felt  that  the  minister  was 
trembling  as  he  took  him  by  the  arm  and 
drew  him  toward  the  door.  "  It's  not  a 
dangerous  thing,  you  know,"  he  added,  reas- 


124     HILDRETHS'    WEDDING-DAY 

suringly.  "  I  can  testify  after  twenty-nine 
years." 

The  young  minister  flushed  warmly,  but 
his  arm  grew  steadier.  "  You  have  shown 
what  a  beautiful  thing  it  can  be,"  he  said. 
And  yet  he  hesitated  in  the  doorway,  for 
Mrs.  Hildreth  was  at  the  window  telling  the 
men  outside  that  they  might  let  the  house 
stand  still  a  little  while ;  so  the  two  young 
people  were  standing  alone  together  hand 
in  hand.  He  could  see  their  faces,  and  he 
felt  very  sure  that  it  would  be  an  intrusion 
if  he  went  forward  to  speak  to  them.  But 
Robbie  Hildreth  was  behind  him  pushing 
him  gently,  and  Mrs.  Hildreth  had  turned 
from  the  window.  A  great  stillness  fell  like 
invocation,  and,  gathering  his  courage,  he 
went  toward  them,  and  his  heart  stirred 
nervously  as  he  rehearsed  the  marriage 
service  in  his  mind. 

Afterward,  while  the  house  was  moving 
leisurely  along  its  way,  the  minister  stepped 
down  from  it,  and  wandered  back  to  the 
deserted  garden.  He  stopped  a  second  time 
beside  the  gate.  The  roses  that  spring  had 
forgotten  mingled  their  sweetness  with  the 
rich,  dreamy  fragrance  of  the  Cape  jasmines 
and  the  fluffy  yellow  acacias  —  the  flowers 
of  love.  The  big  live-oak  which  had  shel 
tered  so  much  happiness  seemed  still  reach- 


TALES  125 

ing  out  to  cover  the  blank  space  where  the 
dust  drifted. 

"  I  wished  them  constant  joy,"  he  mur 
mured,  and  the  color  mounted  softly  to  his 
cheek,  for  they  had  wished  him  something, 
too.  Their  joyous  faces  rose  against  the 
isolation  where  he  stood.  A  few  small, 
common  blossoms  looked  up  in  his  eyes. 
There  are  many  names  for  them.  They  are 
often  spoken  of  in  jest,  yet  there  are  men 
who  count  them  flowers  of  triumph — others, 
flowers  of  unrest. 

"  Bachelor's-buttons,"  he  whispered,  smil 
ing  at  them  ;  "  the  flowers  of  loneliness  — 
but  I  should  not  be  saying  that,"  and  he 
knelt  quickly  then  to  gather  one,  and  as  he 
knelt  he  breathed  a  little  penitential  prayer. 

"  In  hoc  signo  vinces"  he  added  when  he 
rose.  He  glanced  apprehensively  out  toward 
the  road,  and,  slipping  the  flower  into  his 
buttonhole,  walked  slowly  home. 


THE   FIG-TREES    OF    OLD    JOURDE 

WINDING  inland,  Bayou  Marie  opens  a 
sunlit  vista  between  dark  live-oaks  and 
pine-trees.  It  passes  the  deserted  Old  House 
Point  and  Tiblier's  gloomy  place,  where  brown 
nets  are  always  in  sight,  stretched  on  the  long 
pier  to  dry  in  the  sunshine. 

It  passes  Antoine  Manuel's  quaint  old 
house  and  his  tiny  shipyard.  Manuel's  green 
knoll  commands  the  curving  stream  in  all 
directions,  and  among  his  boats  at  anchor 
drift  the  fallen  blooms  of  pink  azaleas.  They 
begin  to  grow  just  beyond  the  orange  grove 
of  Antoine  fils,  so  called  to  distinguish  him 
from  his  father,  the  shipbuilder.  The  young 
man's  wife  is  Madame  Antoine  fils,  and  his 
mother  is  simply  Madame  Antoine  ;  for  farther 
up  the  bayou  Madame  Manuel,  the  grand 
mother,  lives  in  widowed  solitude. 

Past  all  these  warm-hearted,  simple-minded 
Creole  folk  the  Marie  lures  on,  through  warm, 
bright  silence  and  the  spicy  scent  of  myrtle 
and  bay-trees  in  the  woods.  Too  shallow  for 
schooner  traffic,  and  too  narrow,  sometimes, 
even  for  a  skiff  to  turn  in,  it  ripples  between 


TALES 


127 


dun  marshes  or  flowery,  vine-draped  banks 
where  the  air  is  sweet  with  grape-blossom  and 
the  golden  bells  of  jasmine. 

Green  trout  dart  through  clear,  shimmering 
reaches  from  one  pool  of  shadow  to  another, 
and  sometimes  the  call  of  a  bird  breaks 
through  a  quiet  that  is  more  full  of  gladness 
and  life  than  the  atmosphere  of  deeper  chan 
nelled,  more  frequented  streams. 

There,  in  the  bright  sunlight  and  the  utter 
loneliness,  the  fishermen  who  paddle  up  the 
bayou  in  their  pirogues,  casting  for  green 
trout,  know  of  a  rude  shanty,  built  Creole 
fashion,  with  the  beaten  earth  for  a  floor,  and 
a  low-pitched  roof  running  out  beyond  the 
walls  to  shelter  a  gallery  in  front.  With  its 
ever-fresh  whitewash  and  paint  it  looks  new 
still,  but  it  stands  in  the  shadow  of  gnarled, 
wide-spreading  fig-trees  that  tell  a  story  of  the 
many  years  since  old  Jourde  came  to  build 
and  to  plant  in  seclusion,  beyond  even  old 
Madame  Manuel's  place. 

He  is  well  liked,  this  Jourde,  although  he 
is  no  talker,  and  prefers  spending  his  days 
alone  at  his  little  hermitage,  rather  than 
among  his  neighbors ;  and  the  Creoles,  who 
have  no  taste  for  prying,  leave  him  to  himself, 
content  with  their  own  simple  conclusions. 

"  De  ole  Jourde  ees  a  good  man,  bud  'e 
ees  not  sociab',"  Manuel  will  explain,  as  he 


128     FIG-TREES   OF   OLD   JOURDE" 

fills  the  pipe  of  good-fellowship,  "  'e  ees  not 
sociab'." 

One  summer  day  when  the  shadows  had 
stolen  half  across  the  narrow  Marie  —  it  had 
been  a  very  good  day  for  fish  —  a  white- 
faced  stranger  left  his  pirogue  at  Jourde's  little 
landing  and  walked  quickly  up  the  path  that 
old  Jourde  had  worn  to  his  house  under  the 
fig-trees.  The  stranger  knocked  at  the  open 
door ;  waited,  and  knocked  again ;  looked  in, 
and  then  came  away  with  a  groan  to  seat  him 
self  on  a  weather-worn  bench  beneath  one  of 
the  trees.  He  held  one  hand  in  the  other,  and 
turned  a  pain-drawn  face  to  watch  for  some 
moving  figure  on  the  merry,  deserted  bayou. 

It  was  Jourde's  favorite  fig-tree  under  which 
his  visitor  sat  waiting  —  a  fantastic  old  tree 
which  had  been  blown  over  once  in  a  storm, 
so  that  its  trunk  stretched  horizontally  above 
the  ground,  supported  by  part  of  its  roots  and 
part  of  its  branches.  Good  Jourde,  who  loved 
an  experiment  almost  better  than  a  tree,  had 
heaped  earth  upon  the  tips  of  these  branches, 
so  that  they  had  taken  root  and  grown,  giving 
the  old  tree  three  or  four  new  trunks,  on 
which  it  flourished  like  a  banyan,  though  half 
of  its  original  roots  still  stretched  upward,  dry 
and  useless,  while  its  branches  sought  the  sun 
light  at  every  angle  impossible  to  the  nature 
of  fig-trees. 


TALES  129 

At  last  a  boat  came  in  sight  on  the  bayou. 
Old  Jourde  was  returning. 

Little  as  Jourde  went  abroad,  he  was  known 
at  sight  anywhere  on  Bayou  Marie,  Pontomoc 
Bay,  or  Bayou  Porto,  up  which  he  went  once 
a  week  to  the  village  of  Pontomoc  after  his 
mail.  Old  Jourde  neither  paddled  like  the 
men  in  pirogues,  nor  rowed  like  the  ordinary 
men  in  skiffs.  Wherever  he  went,  he  stood 
half  upright,  facing  the  bow  of  his  short,  broad 
boat,  that  seemed  to  be  modelled  after  Jourde 
himself,  and,  with  his  two  oars  held  securely 
in  the  tholes,  pushed  on  them  instead  of  pull 
ing,  surveying  his  way  carefully  in  advance. 
Jourde  had  made  a  mistake  early  in  life  — 
since  then  he  had  preferred  to  see  his  way. 

The  stranger's  heart  sank  at  sight  of  the 
person  that  walked  up  from  the  landing.  A 
quaint,  squat  figure  was  old  Jourde,  like  a 
sturdy  toadstool  under  his  great  broad  hat. 
His  bare  feet  paddled  firmly  along  the  hard 
path  as  if  they  had  no  thought  or  longing  for 
shoes ;  his  faded  trousers  were  turned  up 
over  well-bronzed  shins ;  and  outside  of  the 
trousers  hung  his  red  flannel  shirt,  in  the 
free,  cool  fashion  of  the  poorer  Creoles  on 
the  coast. 

But  when  Jourde  came  nearer,  looking  with 
surprise  at  his  visitor,  there  was  something 
reassuring  in  his  pudgy,  sunburned  face, 


130     FIG-TREES    OF   OLD   JOURDE 

though,  from  under  his  lightly  pencilled 
brows,  his  eyes  looked  strangely,  half  wan- 
deringly.  They  had  seen  that  early  mistake. 

"  Dr.  Jourde?" 

The  barefooted  man  bowed  and  lifted  his 
hat  with  a  politeness  somewhat  less  graceful 
and  more  ornate  than  the  ordinary  courtliness 
to  be  found  among  the  primitive  fishermen. 

"  My  name  ees  Jourde,"  he  said.  If  he 
had  been  speaking  to  a  Creole,  his  measured 
accents  would  have  been  in  perfect  French. 
As  it  was,  his  English  was  the  most  correct 
at  his  command.  His  neighbors  spoke  to  him 
in  their  easy  Creole  patois,  almost  as  provincial 
as  their  English ;  but  although  for  comfort 
and  economy  he  conformed  to  the  common 
costume,  there  was  a  clinging  punctiliousness 
about  him  that  showed  in  his  avoidance  of 
the  common  speech. 

"But  you  are  a  doctor?"  continued  the 
stranger,  on  whose  face  Jourde's  eye  had  at 
once  read  physical  suffering.  "  At  least  the 
women  in  the  house  down  below  here  told 
me  you  understood  medicine  and  had  instru 
ments,  and  I  want  you  "  — 

"  Did  zey  not  tell,  also,  zat  my  knife  and 
my  medicine  zey  are  all  for  ze  dumb  animals  ?  " 
Jourde  interrupted  gravely. 

"What  do  I  care  for  that,  man?"  the 
stranger  retorted  nervously.  "  Look  here, 


TALFS  131 

it's  only  a  little  tiling.  I've  caught  this  fish 
hook  in  my  thumb  and  I  can't  get  it  out. 
You  can  do  it  well  enough ;  it  don't  require 
any  skill  if  you  have  a  sharp  knife,  but  it 
hurts  unbearably;  I  can't  paddle  back  to  the 
village  with  it,  and  the  men  in  the  houses 
below  here  are  all  off  shrimping.  I  could 
do  it  myself  if  it  was  my  left  thumb  "  —  The 
man  spoke  almost  savagely,  for  Jourde's  face 
was  still  impassive.  "  I  tell  you,  no  skill  is 
needed." 

Jourde  smiled  oddly.  "  Eet  geeves  me 
much  pain  to  see  you  so  suffering,"  he  said. 
"  Then  attend.  I  cannot  undertake  your 
oper-acion,  but  I  weell  fasten  your  boat 
behin'  that  of  me,  and  weell  take  you  to  ze 
village"  — 

"  Do  you  think  I'll  stand  this  while  you 
tow  me  three  miles?  Where's  your  knife? 
You've  dilly-dallied  enough;  I  can  hack  it 
out  with  my  left  hand." 

Jourde  stood  silent  a  moment;  then  he 
said,  "  Eet  ees  not  so  easy  a  work,  zis  'acking 
out;  but  as  you  say,  eet  ees  a  small  sing. 
Sit  zere  one  moment,  I  weel  get  my  eenstru- 
ment  and  rhemove  ze  "ook." 

The  reluctant  practitioner  opened  the  only 
closed  door  in  his  cabin,  and  went  into  a  little 
room,  shelved  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and 
crowded  with  books,  magazines,  pamphlets, 


132     FIG-TREES   OF    OLD   JOURDE 

and  jars  of  many  sorts  and  sizes.  There  was 
one  window,  and  by  it  a  table,  on  which  stood 
a  simple  apparatus,  suggestive  of  chemistry, 
and  a  highly-finished  wooden  case.  Jourde 
walked  straight  to  the  case  and  opened  it. 
There  was  a  little  nick  in  the  cover.  He  drew 
back,  steadying  himself  by  the  table.  His 
eyes  saw  something  that  did  not  belong  to  the 
little  cabin  on  the  Marie.  It  is  an  operating- 
table  in  a  city  hospital.  The  room  is  small 
and  old-fashioned ;  the  students  crowd  each 
other  eagerly,  watching  Jourde's  skilful  hands. 
The  struggling  of  the  patient  makes  it  almost 
impossible  to  work,  and  the  moment  is  crit 
ical.  The  assistant  has  already  demurred  at 
using  more  chloroform,  but  Jourde  orders  it. 
In  an  instant  the  assistant  tells  him  it  is  too 
much.  He  drops  his  instruments  ;  the  assist 
ant  removes  the  chloroform  mask.  They 
lower  the  head  of  the  table,  and  fight  desper 
ately  with  every  help  to  resuscitation.  Some 
student  picks  up  an  instrument  and  nervously 
hacks,  hacks,  hacks,  upon  the  case.  The 
assistant  glances  from  the  patient's  sunken, 
pulseless  temple  to  Jourde,  fiercely  applying 
his  restoratives.  The  faces  of  the  crowding 
students  are  tense.  Jourde  looks  up,  meeting 
the  assistant's  eyes.  They  both  stand  erect. 
Some  one  whispers : 
"  My  God  !  " 


TALES  133 

Jourde  hears  his  own  calm  words.  "  This 
possibility  is  always  to  be  faced.  In  a  case 
like  this,  when  he  has  to  choose  between  evils, 
the  operator  is  "  — 

A  regardless  voice  murmurs,  "  Between 
devil  and  deep  sea,"  but  the  set  faces  of  the 
other  students  do  not  relax.  Jourde  has  a 
few  more  words  for  them.  They  disperse 
quietly. 

"  I  can't  stand  this.  I  tell  you,  if  you're 
afraid  give  me  the  knife."  The  stranger  was 
at  the  laboratory  door. 

"  Een  one  meenute,  monsieur,"  Jourde 
answered,  starting  slightly.  "  I  am  wiz  you 
immediately.  But  you  mus' pr-repare;  much 
pain  ees  possib'." 

"  Not  much  more  than  I  have  already,  I 
reckon,"  the  stranger  replied.  But  Jourde 
shook  his  head  as  he  selected  one  of  the 
glistening  knives.  Through  all  these  years, 
while  his  old  associates  had  been  wondering 
about  him,  missing  him,  and  finally  forget 
ting  him,  Jourde  had  been  guarding  his  in 
struments  from  the  approach  of  rust  and 
tarnish.  They  were  ready  for  any  sick  or 
injured  brute,  but  a  human  patient  he  had 
never  touched. 

Jourde's  lips  showed  white  in  the  ruddy 
sunburn  of  his  face  as  he  came  into  the  glow 
ing  outer  world ;  but  the  wounded  hand  was 


134     FIG-TREES   OF   OLD   JOURDE 

grasped  firmly  and  there  was  no  trembling 
of  the  sharp  knife  as  it  began  its  work.  The 
stranger  watched  him  disdainfully  at  first, 
with  an  assumption  of  bearing  the  operation 
carelessly.  But  as  pain  grew  into  keen  tor 
ture  and  the  surgeon's  face  became  intent 
and  eager  over  his  task,  the  patient  saw  that 
his  contempt  had  been  unjust ;  and  it  took 
all  the  remembrance  of  it  to  close  his  lips  and 
hold  his  arm  unshrinking.  At  last,  in  an 
excruciating  moment,  he  gave  his  hand  a 
jerk,  only  to  feel  the  pitiless  clasp  tighten 
on  it. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  can  stand  it,  doctor,"  he 
protested.  "  Don't  you  have  something  here 
that  would  stop  the  pain?  " 

Jourde  smiled  slightly  over  his  knife. 

"  I've  got  to  have  something  !  "  the  man 
insisted  sharply. 

"  Patience  !  "  cried  Jourde.  "  Ze  dumb 
beast  show  more  reason.  Pardon,  I  do  know 
ze  pain,  but  it  will  soon  be  done." 

A  few  moments  later  Jourde  was  carefully 
bandaging  the  thumb.  Now  that  the  suffer 
ing  and  the  strain  were  ended,  each  man  felt 
that  he  owed  the  other  some  amends.  Jourde's 
mind  was  on  some  Scuppernong  wine  in 
the  cabin ;  he  went  after  it  presently.  The 
stranger  fell  to  praising  the  great  fig-trees 
that  shadowed  them. 


TALES 


135 


"  They  thrive  so  finely  here,  I  should  think 
you  would  plant  an  orchard,"  he  suggested. 

Old  Jourde  shrugged  his  square  shoulders. 

"  Eet  'as  been  tried,"  he  said. 

"  Isn't  there  any  market?  " 

"  Ze  canning  factory,  yes." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  plant  them?  " 

"  Monsieur,"  said  Jourde,  "  zere  are  some 
str-range  sings.  One  ees  about  ze  feeg-trees." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  No,  I  do  not  understand  eet  myself,  but 
people  notice  eet.  Ze  feeg-tree  grow  bes'  — 
well —  near  w'ere  somebody  live.  And  w'y? 
I  do  not  know.  Ze  Creole  people  say  zay 
mus'  feel  ze  breas  of  zeir  master  each  morn 
ing,  —  but  zat  ees  not  true,  eet  cannot 
be." 

"  Must  feel  their  master's  breath !  "  echoed 
the  stranger.  "  What  difference  can  that 
make,  if  they  receive  the  same  care  some 
where  else?  " 

"  Oh,  eet  is  only  supersteecion.  Eet  can 
not  be  true.  I  am  Creole,  too,  but  I  know 
zat  cannot  be  true;  eet  is  too  unreasonabl'. 
Yet  zay  do  grow  bes'  near  ze  'ouse ;  zere 
mus'  be  ozer  cause." 

"  I  should  say  so,"  agreed  the  more  fervent 
sceptic,  rising  to  take  his  leave.  "  Can't 
grow  without  feeling  their  master's  breath  ! 
Why  don't  you  ask  how  it  would  be  if  the 


136     FIG-TREES    OF   OLD   JOURDE 

trees  had  a  bad  master  —  wouldn't  his  breath 
wither  them?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  t'ought  of  zat.  I  know  not 
w'at  ze  supersteecion  ees." 

The  two  men  shook  hands  and  parted. 

Jourde  did  not  know,  but  he  had  often 
thought  about  it,  and  it  comforted  him  that 
his  trees  had  always  flourished. 

Jourde  was  absorbed  in  the  little  laboratory 
where  he  spent  almost  all  his  time  of  late, 
when  Antoine  fits  dropped  in.  It  was  not 
often  that  his  neighbors  dropped  in  on 
Jourde,  so  that  a  call  generally  meant  the 
indisposition  of  neighboring  live-stock,  or 
some  important  village  news.  But  Antoine 
fits  had  a  sorrowful  tale  to  tell. 

"A  very  pleasant  day,  Monsieur  Antoine," 
said  Jourde,  with  his  studied  courtesy. 

"  Eet  is  a  little  warm,"  replied  Antoine, 
wiping  his  bronzed  forehead,  "  a  little  warm 
on  de  bayou.  I  have  been  to  my  gran'moder, 
below  here,  and  I  say  to  myself,  I  say,  —  we 
will  go  on  to  see  Monsieur  Jourde  an'  see 
w'at  he  think  about  Tiblier." 

"  Let  me  give  you  a  little  refreshment,"  said 
Jourde,  already  on  his  way  to  the  cupboard. 
"  A  glass  of  my  good  Scuppernong;  it  has 
been  ripening  since  '79.  There  is  no  better 
made  on  all  the  coast.  But  what  is  it  about 
Tiblier?" 


TALES 


137 


"  You  have  not  hear  de  news  'bout  Tiblier, 
Francois  Tiblier,  dat  is  near  dead  down  at  de 
Point?" 

"  Near  dead  !  "  exclaimed  Jourde,  stopping 
with  his  wine  near  the  middle  of  the  room. 
"  But  I  saw  him  only  —  when  was  it?  Not 
long  ago.  What  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Fever  —  fitvre  typhoide,  de  Docteur 
Weellis  say.  He  come  from  de  village  every 
day  to  see  Francois.  He  give  Madame  Fran- 
gois  ver'  little  hope." 

Old  Jourde  filled  two  wine-glasses  in 
silence ;  then,  presenting  one  to  Antoine : 
"Your  good  health,  monsieur,  and  the  re 
covery  of  our  friend  Tiblier  !  " 

"  And  your  prosperity,  Monsieur  Jourde," 
added  Antoine.  "  Ah,  monsieur,  dis  wine  is 
excellen'." 

Jourde  acknowledged  the  praise  absent- 
mindedly. 

"  How  long  has  the  fever  been  running?" 
he  questioned  abruptly. 

Antoine  lowered  his  glass.  "  Pret'  near 
on  t'ree  week  now,  I  reckon.  It  come  on 
him  soon  after  he  come  from  shrimp-fishin'. 
It  is  not  so  healt'y  where  he  live,  down  at  de 
Point ;  I  tole  my  fader  dat  it  is  not  healt'y 
at  de  Tiblier  place,  but  he  say  de  Tiblier 
family  has  been  well  as  any  of  us.  He  t'ink 
dat  Docteur  Weellis  ain't  givin'  Francois  de 
right  treatmen'." 


138     FIG-TREES   OF    OLD   JOURDE 

"  Hey?  "  cried  Jourde  eagerly.  "  How  is 
Dr.  Willis  treating  him?" 

"  Well,  if  it  is  like  w'at  dey  all  say,  I  doan' 
t'ink,  me,  dat  de  docteur  is  treatin'  Francois 
at  all.  He  says  to  Madame  Frangois,  he 
say,  '  Give  him  nosing  to  eat;  '  at  least,  dat 
is  all  I  can  hear  dat  he  do  for  him ;  an'  my 
fader,  he  say  dat  Docteur  Weellis  is  starving 
Frangois  to  deat' — dat  w'at  he  say.  De 
docteur  say  dat  de  fever,  w'en  it  doan'  get 
no  nourishmen',  goin'  wear  itself  out,  but 
my  fader  has  seen  Frangois,  —  he  wen'  to 
see  him  las'  evenin',  —  and  w'at  he  say  is 
dat  de  fever  is  nourishin'  itself  on  Frangois, 
an'  it  is  Frangois  dat  will  wear  out  de  firs'. 
Oh,  it  is  hard  not  to  mek  mistek  in  dose 
fever !  " 

It  was  hard  not  to  make  mistakes.  But 
the  thought  of  young  Tiblier,  overcome  by 
exposure  and  scantier  fare  than  that  usual  to 
Creole  frugality,  pitted  against  the  relentless 
malarial  fever,  —  Jourde  could  have  shaken 
Willis  with  one  vigorous,  plump  arm.  He 
had  great  forbearance  with  youth,  had 
Jourde,  but  not  with  youth  that  clung  to 
theories  which  he  himself  had  abandoned 
twenty  years  ago.  He  knew  Frangois  —  a 
brave  lad ;  it  was  a  pity  that  the  inexperi 
enced,  fogyish  Willis  must  learn  at  his 
expense.  Ah,  well,  it  was  a  great  pity; 


TALES  139 

Frangois  had  a  little  family  to  leave.  Jourde 
roused  himself.  Too  true  a  physician  at 
heart  openly  to  criticise  a  confrere,  he  still 
dared  give  Antoine  little  hope. 

"  I  am  sure  that  Dr.  Willis  will  do  every 
thing  he  can,"  he  said  earnestly.  "  He  is 
conscientious,  there  is  no  doubt ;  he  will  do 
the  best  he  knows." 

"  Yes,  he  say  dat  himself,"  replied  Antoine 
doubtfully,  as  he  rose  to  take  his  leave,  "  an' 
me,  too,  I  t'ink  dat  he  means  well.  But  it 
is  little  matter  w'at  you  mean  if  you  are  mak 
ing  mistek.  Madame  Frangois,  she  is  sure 
dat  de  docteur  is  right;  she  is  satisfy,  dat  is 
one  good  t'ing.  But  I  wish,  me,  dat  we  had 
some  oder  docteur  at  Pontomoc." 

Jourde  accompanied  Antoine  fils  to  the 
landing,  where  they  lingered  a  little  to  dis 
cuss  the  best  treatment  for  certain  ailing 
poultry,  and  kindred  items ;  for  Jourde's 
neighbors  had  learned  to  depend  on  his 
advice  and  surgical  skill.  But  when  the  flash 
of  Antoine's  noiseless  paddle  had  disap 
peared  down  the  bayou,  Jourde  hastened 
back  to  his  little  laboratory  and  buried 
himself  in  his  books. 

He  did  a  great  deal  of  thinking  as  the 
days  went  on,  and  read  his  medical  journals 
more  closely  than  ever.  They  were  the  only 
links  he  allowed  himself  with  the  profession 


140     FIG-TREES   OF   OLD   JOURDE 

he  loved.  Through  them  he  followed  all  the 
discoveries,  all  the  new  lines  of  treatment 
that  he  could  never  test,  espousing  this 
theory,  condemning  that,  with  all  the  pas 
sionate  vehemence  in  which  a  disabled  vet 
eran,  watching  the  battle,  exults  or  fumes  at 
the  movements  of  those  in  command. 

The  news  of  Frangois  grew  more  discourag 
ing  to  all  his  friends,  and  it  did  not  surprise 
Jourde  to  learn,  about  ten  days  later,  that 
young  Tiblier  had  succumbed. 

"  He  should  have  had  nourishment,"  mur 
mured  Jourde,  in  the  laboratory  on  his  return 
from  Francois's  funeral.  "  A  diet  of  milk, 
sponging.  He  could  have  been  saved,  yes, 
he  could  have  been  saved." 

Old  Jourde's  changed  habits  began  to  make 
their  impression.  The  rich  sunburn  faded 
from  his  good,  chubby  face,  and  he  almost 
forgot  his  garden,  with  its  grape-vines  and  its 
fig-trees.  True,  he  still  sat  out  on  the  old 
bench  to  smoke  his  twilight  pipe,  but  his 
mind  was  back  with  his  old  comrades  in  the 
old  New  Orleans  haunts. 

It  was  while  he  was  sitting  there  one  even 
ing,  letting  his  pipe  die  out  in  his  hand,  that 
Antoine  fils  came  running  up  to  him  in 
breathless  haste. 

"  You  mus'  come,"  he  panted,  forgetting 
even  to  bear  his  head.  "  My  moder  is  ver' 


TALES  141 

sick.  I  come  here,  for  dere  is  no  time  to  go 
for  de  docteur.  Come  !  " 

Jourde  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  What  is  it?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  doan'  know,"  cried  Antoine,  wring 
ing  his  hands.  "  My  fader  is  wid  her,  an' 
they  sen'  me  here.  She  is  ver'  sick  —  de 
chill,  Adele,  my  wife,  say ;  she  try  to  make 
her  warm.  Her  hands  are  all  blue,  an'  her 
face  look — oh,  her  face  it  look  like  dead! 
Come,  monsieur,  come  quick !  " 

But  Jourde  had  sat  down  again.  Antoine 
did  not  notice  that  his  voice  was  dry  and 
hoarse. 

"  Go  for  your  doctor,"  he  heard  Jourde 
say.  "  Go  at  once,  you  may  not  be  too  late. 
I  —  I  cannot  come.  I  am  out  of  practice." 

"  You  will  not  come,"  gasped  Antoine, 
scarcely  comprehending  what  Jourde  said. 
"  Not  come  —  O  mon  Dieu!  " 

"Go!"  cried  Jourde  fiercely.  "Hurry, 
man,  do  you  hear !  The  tide  will  be  with 
you  to  the  village.  You  will  be  in  time." 

"  Me  an'  my  fader  doan'  like  de  way  he 
tek  care  of  Frangois,"  Antoine  objected,  still 
hesitating.  "  We  t'ink  "  — 

"  Go  !  "  shouted  Jourde,  stamping  his  foot. 
"  Be  quick,  if  you  don't  want  to  be  late  ! 
Go  !  "  and  Antoine,  overawed,  obeyed. 

"  He'll  be  cramming  ice  down  her  throat ! 


142     FIG-TREES  OF  OLD   JOURDE 

I  know  him,"  thought  Jourde  bitterly,  when 
Antoine  was  gone.  "  Crushed  ice,  the  idiot, 
with  the  chill  already  on !  Bathing  her  in 
alcohol  "  —  he  shuddered.  "  Thank  Heaven, 
he'll  probably  be  too  late.  Poor  Antoine,  he 
takes  it  very  hard  —  poor  boy!"  Jourde 
jumped  up  and  went  into  his  laboratory. 

Did  he  forget  that  he  was  "  out  of  prac 
tice  "  ?  Then  why  did  he  repeat,  "  It  would 
be  murder  —  another  murder;  this  is  duty  — 
a  duty  from  God  himself,"  as  if  he  felt  the 
need  of  reassurance,  all  the  way  to  Madame 
Manuel's  bedside?  For  Jourde's  pipe  lay 
forgotten  on  the  bench  under  the  fig-tree  that 
night,  pearled  with  the  heavy  summer  dew. 
Jourde  was  at  Manuel's,  fighting  with  hot 
drinks  and  stimulants  against  a  congestive 
chill.  When  Antoine  fils  returned  with  Dr. 
Willis,  Jourde  had  been  before  him  two  good 
hours. 

A  new  sign  appeared  in  the  village,  bear 
ing  the  legend,  "  Hippolyte  Jourde,  M.D., 
Physician  and  Surgeon."  It  caused  a  great 
stir  among  the  townspeople,  coming  as  it  did 
a  few  days  after  the  news  of  Madame  Man 
uel's  recovery.  This  cure  was  considered 
little  less  than  miraculous  by  a  community 
accustomed  to  seeing  disease  baffle  such  med 
ical  skill  as  could  afford  to  bury  itself  so 


TALES  143 

far  from  the  centres  of  science.  From  the 
day  that  he  opened  his  office,  Dr.  Jourde's 
hands  were  full. 

And  Jourde  was  happy.  The  curious  ex 
pression  of  self-distrust  had  vanished  from 
his  eyes,  and  in  its  stead  there  shone  a  burn 
ing  eagerness,  as  if  he  would  make  up  in  a 
day  all  that  he  had  lost  during  his  self-im 
posed  exile.  His  dress,  too,  was  transformed, 
and  the  only  garment  which  this  trim  doctor 
inherited  from  "  old  Jourde  "  was  the  broad- 
brimmed  hat. 

Stories  of  his  former  achievements  began 
to  be  known,  and  many  guesses  were  made 
at  the  mystery  of  his  long  retirement,  but  as 
they  never  came  from  any  one  who  knew, 
they  bore  little  truth  and  less  authenticity. 

Toward  the  end  of  August,  the  principal 
hotel-keeper  of  Pontomoc  set  a  large  force  of 
men  at  work  to  strengthen  the  breakwater  in 
anticipation  of  the  annual  storm.  The  heat 
was  intense,  and  the  work  lagged  until  a 
rising  tide  frightened  the  men  and  they  fell 
to  for  the  best  that  was  in  them.  The  hotel 
stood  quite  on  the  Gulf,  and  was  protected 
from  wash  of  the  tide  only  by  its  breakwater. 

It  came  to  be  a  dangerous  occupation,  this 
strengthening  the  breakwater;  for  the  first 
row  of  loosened  piles  gave  and  crunched 
against  the  second  with  every  wave.  It  had 


144    FIG-TREES   OF   OLD   JOURDE 

been  the  intention  of  the  hotel  manager  to 
drive  an  outer  row  of  posts,  but  this  was 
scarcely  begun  when  the  men  were  forced  to 
give  up  and  hastily  lash  the  rest  together  with 
chains.  It  was  in  this  task  that  Emil  Georget 
almost  lost  his  life.  Between  the  waves,  he 
had  been  working  among  the  others  with 
ropes  and  chains  and  spars,  but  there  came 
one  wave  for  which  Emil  was  not  prepared. 
The  rest  of  the  men  sprang  away ;  he  stood, 
suddenly  caught  by  the  arm,  between  the 
straining  piles.  It  was  only  for  a  moment; 
the  wave  fell  back  and  left  him  freed, 
stretched  out  on  the  beach  as  he  had  fallen, 
but  his  arm  was  a  hopeless  mass. 

There  was  an  immediate  summons  for  Dr. 
Jourde,  but  he  was  out,  and  Dr.  Willis  was 
taken  down  to  the  sufferer  at  once. 

"  I  have  no  instruments  for  this,"  he  said, 
when  he  saw  the  condition  of  Georget's  arm. 
"  We  will  have  to  wait  for  Dr.  Jourde,  but  I 
can  make  him  comfortable  until  then." 

Emil  had  been  laid  on  the  side  gallery  of 
the  hotel,  and  young  Willis  was  bending  over 
him  as  Jourde  came  up  carrying  his  instru 
ments. 

"  He  suffered  so  that  I've  just  given  him 
morphine,"  Willis  explained  nervously. 

"  You  eenjected  eet?" 

"  In  the  arm." 


TALES  145 

Jourde's  eyes  nailed  the  younger  man. 

"  Ze  eenjured  arm?  "  he  asked  sharply. 

"  Of  course,  where  it  was  need  "  — 
Something  in  Jourde's  face  closed  the  sen 
tence. 

Emil's  voice  rose  entreatingly.  Jourde 
went  over  to  him  and  made  a  careful  exam 
ination,  in  spite  of  the  sufferer's  protests  that 
he  wanted  to  be  put  out  of  his  misery. 

"  'E  promise  'e  will  help  me,"  Emil  groaned, 
seeking  out  Willis  with  his  eyes,  "  but  de 
t'ings  'e  do  doan'  do  no  good  —  oh,  I  can' 
stan'  dis,  me,  —  I  can',  I  can'." 

<(  Be  brave,  man,"  Jourde  cried  perempto 
rily,  in  French.  "  Have  courage.  Nothing 
can  help  you  unless  you  first  help  yourself. 
Make  up  your  mind  to  go  through  this  with 
out  anything.  You  see  that  the  things  don't 
help  you.  Come,  man,  be  brave  !  " 

There  was  something  magnetic  in  this 
quaint,  plump  doctor  when  he  roused  him 
self.  Emil  said:  "Monsieur  know  bes'." 

But  Jourde  felt  like  a  craven.  He  knew 
that  "  the  things,"  if  properly  applied,  \vould 
bring  relief;  and  he  made  his  simple  prepa 
rations  in  the  haste  of  a  man  who  doubts  him 
self.  Willis  helped  him  with  angry  deftness. 
To  his  eyes,  this  old  surgeon  was  a  brute. 

As  they  bound  the  unresisting  patient  to 
the  improvised  operating-table,  Jourde  felt 


146     FIG-TREES   OF   OLD   JOURDE" 

that  he  could  now  do  his  part  without  flinch 
ing,  but  at  the  last  moment  he  could  not 
restrain  a  glance  into  Emil's  face. 

"  We  will  use  ze  anaeszetic,"  he  said  qui 
etly,  and  the  operation  was  delayed  while  he 
arranged  the  appliances. 

Through  all  the  strained  apprehension  of 
the  next  fifteen  minutes  the  old  doctor  felt  an 
exultant  thrill  to  see  that  his  hands  had  not 
forgotten  their  craft 

The  operation  went  well.  It  was  pauseless 
work,  and  when  it  was  done  young  Willis 
drew  a  long  breath.  He  raised  his  eyes  to 
find  the  older  man  still  watching.  It  was 
not  till  Emil's  eyelids  trembled  open  for  a 
moment  that  Jourde  answered  Willis's  glance 
with  inexpressible  relief  and  joy.  Then  his 
face  changed.  Something  beyond  Willis 
held  his  eyes,  and  the  younger  man  can  never 
forget  the  look.  He  hurried  to  Jourde,  and, 
putting  a  firm  arm  around  him,  drew  him  into 
a  chair. 

"  Eet  —  eet's  —  netting,"  Jourde  said,  in  the 
monotonous  tones  of  one  who  wrestles  with 
unconsciousness. 

"  Eet  —  weell  —  pass,"  he  murmured, 
weakly  pushing  away  the  restoratives  that 
Willis  pressed  upon  him.  "I  —  tell — you," 
Jourde's  thought  was  impatient,  but  his  voice 
flatted  in  spite  of  him,  "  let  —  me  —  be." 


TALES 


Willis  "let  him  be."  There  was  room  for 
much  pity  in  this  young  practitioner's  heart, 
much  appreciation  of  a  pain  that  he  saw  and 
did  not  ask  to  understand.  It  was  with  no 
feeling  of  rebuff  that  he  turned  to  devote  his 
attention  to  Georget,  who  was  coming  to 
himself  in  queer  waste  places,  and  felt  grate 
ful  for  a  clasping  hand. 

In  that  moment  Jourde's  impatient  aver 
sion  for  Willis  gave  way  to  a  conviction  that 
the  blundering,  undeveloped  young  fellow 
had  possibilities  of  growth,  and  was  made  of 
hardier  stuff  than  he  himself. 

The  unceasing  vigilance  with  which  Jourde 
watched  over  Emil's  convalescence  caused  no 
little  dissatisfaction  among  his  other  patients, 
who  found  themselves  suddenly  turned  over 
to  young  Willis's  tender  mercies.  But  when 
Emil's  case  had  been  discharged,  they  were 
more  impressed  to  hear  that  Dr.  Jourde's  sign 
had  disappeared. 

The  evening  that  he  dismissed  Emil, 
Jourde,  in  frock  coat  and  patent  leathers, 
entered  his  little  hermitage  on  Bayou  Marie. 
Ten  minutes  later,  in  scarlet  shirt  and  bare 
footed,  he  emerged,  pruning-shears  in  hand. 

The  August  storm  had  worked  havoc 
with  his  fig-trees,  and  Jourde  went  among 
them  contritely,  trimming  off  broken  twigs, 
and  bandaging  with  long  strips  of  sail-cloth 


148     FIG-TREES    OF    OLD    JOURDE 

the  limbs  that  had  been  shattered  by  the 
wind. 

It  was  here  that  Willis  generally  found  him, 
for  the  younger  man  fell  into  a  habit  of  com 
ing  to  confer  with  Jourde,  and  the  old  bench 
under  the  trees  was  the  scene  of  many  ani 
mated  discussions,  and  many  discourses  in 
Jourde's  quaint  English. 

"  Always  at  those  trees,"  laughed  Willis, 
coming  up  the  little  path  from  the  landing 
one  afternoon. 

Jourde,  perched  in  the  croft  of  a  stumpy 
tree,  answered  not  a  word  until  Willis  stood 
just  beneath  him  ;  then  he  said  : 

"  Weell  you  support  zees  leem'  one  minute, 
eefyou  please,  docteur" 

"Got  to  come  off,  has  it?"  said  Willis, 
reaching  up  and  bracing  a  strong  hand  against 
the  limb. 

He  was  often  called  upon  to  assist  at  some 
such  piece  of  surgery,  and  while  Jourde 
worked  Willis  would  consult  with  him  in 
regard  to  special  patients  in  the  neighbor 
hood.  He  did  this  now,  talking  above  the 
muffled  squealing  of  old  Jourde's  fine-tooth 
saw,  while  Jourde  nodded  or  frowned  over  his 
sawing  as  he  listened.  The  tree  dismembered 
of  that  limb,  he  allowed  his  little  round  figure 
to  drop  limply  to  earth,  and  repaired  with 
Willis  to  his  well-loved  bench. 


TALES  149 

"  Zey  are  eemproving,"  said  Jourde,  look 
ing  fondly  at  the  trees. 

"They  begin  to  feel  your  breath  again," 
replied  Willis,  smiling.  He  had  come  to 
take  an  indulgent  interest  in  Jourde's  fig-trees. 

"Ah,  you  know  eet,  zen  !  "  cried  the  old 
man;  adding  hastily,  "eet  ees  a  super- 
steecion,  zat  ees  all.  Eet  ees  not  true,  it 
cannot  be.  Eet  is  too  unreasonaable." 

"  I  suppose  it  would  be  hard  to  prove," 
Willis  admitted,  "  but  I  can't  help  liking  it." 

"  As  for  proove,  zere  ees  plenty  of  zat. 
Plenty  of  cases  zat  might  be  considered 
proove.  For  one,  you  never  see  ze  feeg-tree 
leeving  at  a  deserted  'ouse.  Oh,  zere  ees 
much  proove,  but  eet  ees  too  unreasonaable  ! 
Zere  mus'  be  some  ozer  cause." 

Willis  would  have  continued  the  argument, 
but  old  Jourde  turned  the  conversation  to  the 
subject  on  which  Willis  had  come  to  confer, 
and  the  young  physician  soon  forgot  the  fig- 
trees  and  the  quaint  superstition  that  clung 
to  them. 

It  was  sunset  when  Willis  untied  his  pirogue 
and  turned  his  face  down  the  shimmering 
Marie,  in  its  golden  evening  mist. 

"  Ah,  well,"  sighed  Jourde,  as  he  watched 
the  rise  and  fall  of  the  glistening  paddle,  "  at 
least  I  have  courage  to  be  surgeon  to  my 
trees.  There  is  other  life  besides  the  human. 


ISO     FIG-TREES    OF   OLD  JOURDE" 

Why  should  I  seek  responsibilities  that  are 
too  great?  " 

He  turned  back  along  the  darkening  path. 

As  his  eyes  fell  on  his  gray-limbed,  shadowy 
patients,  his  good  face  cleared. 

"  It  is  strange,"  he  murmured,  plucking  a 
last  year's  leaf  from  the  many-trunked  pa 
triarch.  "It  is  very  strange — they  were 
withering  without  me." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  It  is  not  true  —  it  cannot  be ;   but  it  is" 


THE   CAPTOR    OF    OLD    PONTOMOC 

PONTOMOC  BAY  was  a  grimy  map  of 
log-strewn  sand-bars.  At  the  mouth  of 
Bayou  Porto  a  schooner  was  laid  up  on  the 
bare,  muddy  bottom  of  the  lesser  channel. 
A  slender  thread  of  smoke  rose  from  her 
deck,  where  men  were  starting  a  charcoal 
furnace  in  the  lee  of  the  cargo.  The  north 
wind,  that  had  driven  the  water  out  to  deep 
sea,  rattled  uselessly  in  her  rigging. 

Up  the  shrunken  main  channel  a  boy  and 
girl  were  idling  in  a  skiff.  The  marshes  on 
their  uncovered  roots  made  high  walls  about 
them,  topped  with  the  drift  of  a  storm-tide, 
or  crushed  by  stranded  logs.  The  girl  was 
paddling  softly  at  the  command  of  the  boy, 
who  sat  in  the  bow,  holding  his  gun  ready 
for  a  shot.  They  were  creeping  up  on  a  mud 
hen  that  was  feeding  along  the  exposed 
shoals  at  the  base  of  the  marsh.  Suddenly 
the  shy-looking  brown  bird  spread  its  strong 
wings  and,  with  a  derisive  scream,  wavered 
swiftly  upward  into  flight. 

The  boy  fired,  but  his  shot  fell  short  and 
he  shook  his  fist  after  the  lessening  fleck  over 


152     CAPTOR   OF   OLD   PONTOMOC 

the  marsh.  "  I  wouldn't  mind  losing  you,  you 
imp,"  he  cried,  "  if  you  didn't  taunt  me  with 
it.  But  I'll  hurt  you  yet." 

"  Don't  try  any  more,  Bert,"  pleaded  the 
girl.  "  You'll  never  hit  one,  and  we've 
wasted  too  much  time  already.  I  have  lots 
to  do  at  the  store  to-day  —  if  I  don't  finish 
posting  my  books  father  will  be  so  angry, 
and  if  you  don't  start  the  men  to  work  on 
these  logs  before  he  gets  back  "  —  she  gave 
a  strong  sweep  with  her  oar  as  she  spoke. 

The  boy,  who  had  just  taken  the  empty 
shells  from  his  gun,  let  it  clatter  down 
unloaded  beside  him,  and  turning  caught  her 
hands.  "  You've  cared  long  enough  whether 
father  was  angry,"  he  declared.  "  Ever 
since  you  were  born  you've  done  nothing 
but  care,  and  since  I  was  born  I've  done 
nothing  but  care,  and  since  mother  first  saw 
father  she  has  done  nothing  but  care,  and  it's 
time  it  all  stopped.  You're  eighteen  years 
old.  Did  you  ever  have  a  minute  of  fun  in 
your  life?  If  you  did  it  was  before  I  was 
born.  I've  never  seen  any.  There's  not  a 
nigger  in  Pontomoc  that  has  worked  like  us 
or  skimped  like  us.  Where  does  the  money 
go  that  the  new  mill  makes?  Where  does  the 
money  go  that  the  store  makes  ?  Where  does 
the  charcoal  money  go?  You  ask  anybody 
in  Pontomoc  if  Robert  Norton  is  a  poor  man." 


TALES  153 

The  girl  drew  her  hands  from  the  grasp 
that  crushed  them  against  the  oar,  and  laid 
them  imploringly  upon  her  brother's. 

"  Bert,"  she  said,  "  remember  how  mother 
keeps  saying  that  there's  something  none  of 
us  understand,  remember  how  it  hurts  her 
when  we  are  impatient"  — 

"  Oh,  Elizabeth,"  the  boy  cried,  "  don't 
talk  to  me  about  mother;  I've  given  up  for 
her  sake  and  given  up  for  her  sake  and  given 
up  for  her  sake,  until  he  thinks  there  is 
nothing  I  cannot  be  made  to  do.  Remem 
bering  that  he  was  decently  thoughtful  once 
when  he  was  making  love  to  her  may  make 
it  easier  for  her  to  stand  him,  but  I  tell  you 
I've  never  seen  him  any  way  but  the  way  he 
is  now,  and  when  he  capped  everything  by 
putting  you  down  in  that  hole  of  a  store  to 
keep  books,  just  to  spy  on  poor  Stewart,  I 
made  up  my  mind  not  to  turn  my  hand  over 
again  to  please  him." 

The  girl  looked  up  along  the  desolate, 
uplifted  marshes  to  the  dazzling  blue  of  the 
sky.  "I  don't  mind  any  more,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Stewart  has  been  very  kind." 

"That's  not  the  question,"  said  Bert 
doggedly.  They  were  silent  a  moment,  and 
over  the  marsh  there  settled  down  to  them 
the  tinkle  of  a  cow-bell  from  the  hidden 
shore.  Bert  touched  his  sister's  arm  and 


154     CAPTOR   OF   OLD   PONTOMOC 

pointed  ahead  to  a  black  dot  bobbing  up 
and  then  disappearing  from  the  surface  of 
the  water.  "Do  you  see  that  duck?"  he 
whispered.  "  Now,  just  try  if  you  can  paddle 
softly  for  once  and  give  me  a  fair  shot." 

Elizabeth  glanced  forward  and  was  just 
dipping  her  paddle,  when  they  heard  the 
strenuous  thud  of  approaching  oars  and  the 
black  dot  disappeared  for  good. 

"Darn  the  luck!"  growled  Bert;  "the 
fool  might  have  known  somebody  would  be 
hunting  when  there's  such  a  low  tide." 

Elizabeth  bent  nervously  to  her  paddling. 
"  That  sounds  like  father,"  she  said. 

"But  you  know  very  well  it  isn't,"  retorted 
the  boy.  "  If  he  had  started  from  the  head 
of  the  bayou  before  daybreak  he  couldn't  be 
here  yet." 

As  if  in  answer,  a  skiff  leaped  toward 
them  round  a  curve  in  the  marsh.  The  tall, 
gray  boatman  scarcely  looked  to  the  right 
or  to  the  left,  but,  reaching  his  long,  insati 
able  oars  tensely  after  the  water,  threw  his 
gnarled  body  forward  and  back,  forward  and 
back,  forward  and  back. 

The  boy  and  girl  sat  cowed  and  waiting. 
The  oarsman  almost  passed  them  by,  then 
he  stopped  mid-stroke  and  fought  against 
the  boiling  water.  "Are  you  crazy?"  he 
shouted,  "are  you  blind?"  He  stretched 


TALES  155 

out  his  hand  toward  the  floating  logs  in  the 
channel,  the  logs  that  were  scattered  over 
the  shoals  and  through  the  marsh.  "  Don't 
you  see  that  all  I  own  or  hope  to  own  is 
afloat  or  stuck  in  this  cursed  water  and 
sand?  Don't  you  care  whether  you  have 
bread  to-morrow  or  your  mother  starves? 
Must  you  shoot  the  last  cent  I  have  into  the 
air,  and  waste  time  that  is  worth  dollars? 
Come  !  "  He  clenched  one  hard  hand  round 
his  son's  arm  and  drew  the  boy  on  to  the 
seat  beside  him.  "  Go  !  "  and  he  gave  the 
girl's  boat  a  mighty  push  up  stream. 

Elizabeth  bent  forward  with  eyes  aflame. 
"  Remember,"  she  cried  ;  "Bert,  remember  !  " 
But  Bert  looked  at  the  oar  on  which  he  was 
throwing  his  weight,  and  she  met  her  father's 
tortured,  impatient  gaze.  Then  the  marsh 
hid  them,  and  she  was  alone. 

As  she  rowed  onward,  it  was  as  if  she 
had  suddenly  wakened  to  the  actual  havoc 
of  the  storm.  The  drifting  logs  in  some 
places  almost  filled  the  channel ;  the  tide 
had  lifted  one  unbroken  boom  sidewise,  half 
upon  the  marsh ;  when  she  came  out  in 
sight  of  the  high  banks  of  the  bayou,  she 
saw  that  the  water  had  been  above  them  too, 
scattering  its  freight  along  them.  A  few 
red-shirted  men,  routed  out  by  her  father's 
early  summons,  were  already  rafting  together 


156     CAPTOR   OF   OLD    PONTOMOC 

the  floating  logs,  and  there  was  something 
of  Norton's  forced  haste  in  the  way  they 
pounded  the  iron  "  dogs "  into  the  wood 
with  flashing  axes,  waded  hip  deep  in  the 
numbing  water,  or  leaped  dripping  from  log 
to  log  with  the  clanking  chains.  It  was  hard 
work,  but  necessary,  and  familiar  enough  to 
Elizabeth  ;  yet  she  resented  more  keenly  than 
ever  the  needless  stress  with  which  every 
thing  was  pushed  under  the  direction  of  her 
father.  What  gave  him  the  power  to  bend 
every  one  to  his  purpose?  What  had  turned 
that  indomitable  will  on  this  long,  fierce 
hunt  for  money?  Her  counsel  to  Bert  had 
taken  the  last  of  her  forbearance,  and  Bert's 
words  repeated  themselves  to  her,  burdened 
with  all  the  mysterious,  uncalled-for  hardship 
of  their  lives:  "Ask  anybody  in  Pontomoc 
if  Robert  Norton  is  a  poor  man." 

At  the  landing  where  Elizabeth  left  her 
boat,  another  force  of  men  were  working, 
aided  by  half  the  loafers  of  the  village.  The 
heavy  flat  boat  which  ran  as  a  ferry  across 
the  bayou  had  been  grounded  far  inshore, 
and  the  crowd  was  prying  and  dragging  to 
get  it  back  within  reach  of  some  ordinary 
tide.  Elizabeth  saw  with  misery  that  they 
redoubled  their  efforts  as  she  came  up.  Mr. 
Stewart,  at  the  store,  was  the  only  man  in 
Pontomoc  who  went  his  quiet  way  unstartled 


TALES  157 

by  the  approach  of  Robert  Norton  or  his 
children. 

Stewart  was  at  work  in  the  deserted  store, 
weighing  out  and  wrapping  up  pounds  and 
half-pounds  and  quarter-pounds  of  various 
groceries,  ready  for  the  petty  custom  of  the 
workmen  when  the  evening  rush  should 
come.  As  Elizabeth  entered,  he  came 
around  the  counter  to  shake  hands  with  her. 

"And  how  are  you  this  morning?"  he 
asked,  as  he  always  did,  "  and  how  is  Mrs. 
Norton?" 

"  As  usual,"  Elizabeth  answered,  scarcely 
touching  his  hand.  His  gentle,  staid  courtesy 
had  come  to  be  a  refuge  to  her  at  ordinary 
times,  but  when  overwrought  by  thought  of 
her  father  she  could  not  bear  it.  Stewart 
had  been  crushed  under  Norton's  feet  more 
cruelly  than  the  rest  of  Pontomoc. 

"Has  the  storm  done  much  damage?"  he 
went  on  easily.  "  I  haven't  been  out  to  see, 
but  I  notice  that  everybody  else  has  gone 
down  to  the  bayou  to  find  out  what  is  going 
on.  Do  you  know,  Miss  Elizabeth,  when  I 
was  a  boy  nobody  would  have  thought  of 
going  to  the  bayou  after  a  storm.  It  was  all  a 
rush  for  the  front  beach  to  see  how  many 
bath-houses  were  gone ;  but  now  the  ques 
tion  is  if  the  logs  have  broken  loose"  — 

"  They  have  broken  loose,"  said  Elizabeth 


158     CAPTOR  OF   OLD   PONTOMOC 

very  slowly,  "  and  I  wish  they  could  never 
be  rafted  together  again." 

Stewart  did  not  heed  her.  Since  they  had 
been  thrown  upon  each  other's  mercy  in  the 
little  store,  he  had  been  studying  her,  and 
he  knew  that  sometimes  her  moods  of  revolt 
were  soothed  if  he  just  talked  on  and  on. 

"  I  am  an  old-fashioned  man,"  he  said, 
going  to  the  door  and  looking  down  the 
shady,  silent  street.  "  Business  had  no  at 
tractions  for  me  until  necessity  picked  me  up 
and  threw  me  into  it,  as  one  might  say ;  but 
even  I  can  see  what  a  wonderful  thing  your 
father  is  doing  for  poor  old  Pontomoc.  Why, 
look  here !  "  He  went  back  behind  the 
counter,  unlocked  the  till,  picked  up  a  hand 
ful  of  pennies  and  jingled  them  in  the  air. 
"  Do  you  know  that  it  is  only  since  your 
father  has  owned  the  store  that  we  have  had 
pennies  here?  How  could  we  sell  things  at 
small  profit  when  we  were  content  to  make 
change  within  five  cents?  " 

Elizabeth  laughed  dryly.  "  Be  careful 
that  you  don't  lose  one  of  those  pennies," 
she  suggested ;  "  if  you  do  you'll  have  to 
cheat  somebody  out  of  one  to  make  up  for 
it,  and  you'll  not  like  that." 

Stewart  let  the  dingy  things  slide  into  the 
till  and  walked  hastily  to  where  Elizabeth 
had  perched  herself  at  the  high,  box-like 


TALES  159 

desk.  She  looked  dully  at  his  fine,  thin,  re 
monstrating  face. 

"  Don't  you  know,"  he  begged,  "  that  it 
will  be  much  pleasanter  if  you  do  not  talk 
like  that?  " 

The  girl  dropped  her  chin  in  her  hand  and 
turned  away  from  him.  She  had  a  strong 
face,  like  her  father's.  "  If  you  fancy,"  she 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  that  it  is  pleasanter  in 
one  way  than  another,  you  must  think 
strangely  of  me." 

"  Of  you?" 

"  Do  you  think  every  kind,  thoughtful 
thing  you  have  done  for  me  has  not  cut  me 
like  a  knife?  Do  you  think  it  is  pleasant 
for  me  even  to  look  in  the  face  of  the  man 
my  father  has  wronged?" 

"  You're  mistaken,"  cried  Stewart,  with  a 
flush  of  pain.  "  Your  father  did  what  any 
Northern  man  would  have  done.  I  showed 
my  incapacity,  and  he  followed  up  his  busi 
ness  rights." 

He  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  hot  color  rush 
ing  to  her  averted  face,  and  then  she  buried 
her  forehead  on  her  arms. 

"  Oh,  you  are  cruel  to  the  North,"  she 
said,  in  a  muffled  voice.  "  Everybody  knows 
how  he  followed  up  his  business  rights. 
This  store  is  yours.  I  don't  care  what  tricks 
of  law  or  business  say  it's  not." 


160    CAPTOR   OF   OLD   PONTOMOC 

"Nothing  belongs  to  the  incapable,"  Stew 
art  answered. 

"You  are  not  incapable.  Do  you  think 
if  you  were,  father  would  have  you  here? 
You  are  only  honest." 

Stewart  gave  one  apprehensive  glance  out 
at  the  empty  street,  then  laid  his  hand  on  the 
girl's  bowed  shoulder.  "  Oh,  you  poor 
child,"  he  said,  "  I  am  not  honest.  I  am 
breaking  trust  every  day." 

Elizabeth  looked  up  full  of  incredulous 
questioning.  Her  eyes  met  his  and  brimmed 
slowly  with  unwonted  tears. 

"  Don't  pity  me,"  he  said  gently,  taking 
away  his  hand.  "  I  never  meant  to  pain  you 
with  it,  but  now  I  wish  I  could  show  you  how 
knowing  and  loving  you  have  made  up  for 
everything.  Don't  pity  me." 

Elizabeth  leaned  toward  him  with  a  face  in 
which  all  the  depths  of  love  and  sorrow  were 
stirred. 

Outside  came  a  rattle  of  hoofs.  "  Stewart !  " 
shouted  Norton's  voice. 

The  girl  opened  her  ledger.  "  God  pity 
us  both,"  she  said. 

"  Get  on  to  this  horse,"  said  Norton,  as 
Stewart  hastened  to  the  door,  "  and  ride  out 
the  old  country  road  and  send  me  every  one 
of  my  men  that  is  chopping  in  the  woods. 
Have  them  come  here  for  spades  and  shovels, 


TALES  161 

and  then  report  at  the  mill.  Those  that  don't 
get  there  by  noon  will  be  turned  off.  I've 
got  to  cut  a  deeper  channel  to  the  mill. 
At  this  tide  no  logs  can  get  in,  and  we've  got 
to  saw  night  and  day  till  our  big  order  is  off, 
if  we  have  to  carry  the  logs  by  hand.  Don't 
spare  yourself  or  the  horse.  Be  back  at  ten 
o'clock  —  I've  work  for  you  to-day." 

"  And  the  store?  "  asked  Stewart,  his  white 
hand  on  the  pommel. 

Norton's  eyes  cursed  him.  "  I'll  see  to 
that,"  he  said. 

For  the  first  time  in  their  connection 
Stewart  quailed,  and,  thinking  only  of  Eliza 
beth,  jumped  into  the  saddle.  As  he  galloped 
away  the  girl  came  out  at  her  father's  call. 

"  You'll  have  charge  here  to-day,"  said 
Norton.  "  Work  at  the  books  and  don't  let 
customers  cheat  you.  I  need  your  boat,  so 
you'll  stay  until  you  are  called  for." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Elizabeth. 

Norton  strode  away  towards  the  bayou  as 
if  he  were  pursued.  Elizabeth  watched  him, 
regardless  of  whether  he  looked  back  or  not. 
Her  sad  new  joy  gave  her  a  deeper  under 
standing  of  what  her  mother  had  borne,  and 
of  the  constant  illumined  patience  in  which 
she  had  lived.  Her  father's  forward-stretch 
ing  figure  pressed  out  of  sight  beneath  the 
live-oaks,  but  the  passionate  strain  of  his  face 


162     CAPTOR    OF    OLD    PONTOMOC 

and  voice  haunted  the  girl.  If,  in  other  years, 
all  of  that  force  had  been  given  to  love,  it  was 
not  strange  that  the  answering  love  had 
endured,  bearing  all  things,  believing  all  things, 
hoping  all  things.  Elizabeth  had  been  very 
tender  of  her  mother's  faithfulness.  She  had 
set  her  face  to  lines  of  patience,  to  save  her 
mother  from  pain.  She  had  laughed  when 
anger  choked  her,  to  tide  her  mother  over  the 
endless  harrying  of  their  days.  How  she  had 
pitied  her  mother  !  But  she  had  never  trusted 
with  her.  Now,  with  a  feeling  that  her  grasp 
of  life  had  broadened,  she  found  herself 
believing  in  her  father  because  he  once  had 
loved.  Yet  his  face  had  never  been  so  ruth 
lessly  hard  before. 

Sleep-loving  Bayou  Porto  and  tranquil  old 
Pontomoc  knew  no  rest  from  the  spur  of 
Norton's  presence.  Now  in  his  skiff,  now 
tearing  from  the  village  to  the  mill  on  horse 
back,  he  seemed  to  be  in  all  places,  and  even 
when  he  left  a  group  of  men  they  felt  no  les 
sening  of  tension,  but  expected  each  instant 
the  sting  of  his  voice  behind  them.  The 
bayou  was  alive  with  shouts  of  workmen  and 
the  ringing  of  their  tools.  At  the  mill  the 
force  which  Stewart  had  raised  scattered  in 
eagerly  and  fell  to  work.  By  eleven  o'clock 
all  of  the  gang  except  its  foreman  were 
digging  in  the  trench.  Stewart  was  there  in 


TALES  163 

temporary  command,  but  shovelling  away  like 
the  rest.  He  noticed  that  the  men  kept  glanc 
ing  up  a  little  apprehensively  in  the  direction 
from  which  the  foreman  should  be  cominer. 

o 

"  Tears  like  Tom  Largeon  is  a-takin'  of  his 
time,"  one  fellow  kept  repeating  nervously. 
"  Tears  like  he  might  a-knowed  the  old  man 
wouldn't  stand  no  triflin'  to-day." 

"What  do  you  think  is  keeping  him?" 
Stewart  asked.  "  I  saw  his  boy,  and  he  said 
Largeon  was  at  home  and  he  would  tell  him." 

One  of  the  quiet  Creoles  turned  his  keen, 
close-set  eyes  on  Stewart.  "  An'  you  didn' 
'ear  'im  ride  off  de  wrong  way  t'rough  de 
woods  on  dat  lil  pony  of  him,  a-hollerin' ?  " 

"  Was  that  he?"  asked  Stewart. 

"  Yas,"  answered  the  Creole,  "  all  de  boy 
in  de  woods  dey  know  Largeon  w'en  'e  call." 

"  Did  you  hear  him?  What  do  you  make 
of  it?"  Stewart  asked  his  next  neighbor, 
the  anxious  man.  "  He  couldn't  have  been 
drunk." 

"  Well,  I  hain't  seen  him  right  hollerin' 
drunk  for  twenty  year,  but  I  'low  he  could 
ha'  been  drunk  if  he'd  a-wanted  tuh,"  the 
anxious  man  returned.  "  But  hit  looks  like 
Tom  Largeon  has  been  a-workin'  for  the  ole 
man  too  long  to  be  a-gettin'  drunk  w'en  he 
knows  in  reason  that  the  logs  is  loose,  even 
if  he  did  git  mad  at  the  ole  man's  faultin'  him 


1 64    CAPTOR   OF   OLD    PONTOMOC 

yesterday;  an'  I  disremember  ever  a-seeing 
the  ole  man  so  nigh  clean  foolish  over  the 
logs  as  he  is  this  mornin'.  Gee  " —  the  man's 
mouth  shut  like  a  spring. 

"No  talking!  You're  all  losing  time!" 
fell  Norton's  voice  from  the  bank.  "  Where's 
Largeon?  Didn't  you  see  him,  Stewart?" 

"  I  left  word  for  him,  and  you  can  depend 
on  Largeon,"  Stewart  answered ;  "  he'll  be 
here." 

Norton  ground  his  teeth  together  in  a  con 
quering  physical  effort  for  calmness.  Then 
he  beckoned  to  Stewart.  "  You  are  not  used 
to  managing  men,"  he  said,  in  a  checked 
voice,  "  and  you  don't  know  how  to  get  the 
best  work  out  of  them  as  I  do,  or  even  Lar 
geon  ;  but  you  must  keep  them  from  playing 
off  altogether,  and  losing  their  time  in  talk, 
until  Largeon  comes.  He  is  taking  advan 
tage  of  my  situation  to  play  off  himself,  but 
he'll  learn  better.  Keep  them  all  thinking 
that  I'll  be  here  the  next  minute,"  and  then, 
with  a  feW"  directions  about  the  work  itself, 
Norton  was  off  again,  taking  the  boat  and 
leaving  his  horse  hitched  to  a  tree. 

The  mastery  of  will  over  the  wrath  of  a 
strong  nature  is  sometimes  more  terrible  to 
see  than  an  outbreak  of  passion,  and  Nor 
ton's  quiet,  combined  with  the  strange  look 
of  torture  in  his  eyes,  sent  Stewart  back  to 


TALES  165 

the  men  with  a  new,  besetting  fear  for  Eliza 
beth.  There  was  something  wrong  that  her 
father  himself  recognized,  in  his  body,  soul, 
or  mind.  He  was  struggling  against  some 
thing  within  himself. 

Outside  of  the  bayou,  off  a  sandy  point 
that  jutted  into  the  bay,  Bert  had  charge  of 
one  of  the  gangs  of  logging  men.  Norton's 
house  stood  on  another  point,  across  a  little 
inlet,  but  Norton  had  not  taken  time  to  go 
home,  although  since  the  night  before,  when 
the  storm  caught  him  at  an  upper  logging 
camp,  he  had  worked  ceaselessly  without  rest 
or  food.  His  wife  had  spent  the  morning  at 
the  window  with  a  field-glass,  watching  the 
bay  and  bayou.  For  her  they  were  not 
merely  the  setting,  but  were  sentient  actors 
in  the  fate-driven  tragedy  of  her  husband's 
life.  She  saw  him  come  and  go ;  once  she 
saw  Bert  appeal  to  him,  trying,  she  supposed, 
to  suggest  some  different  plan  of  work ;  fail 
ing,  the  boy  went  on  sullenly,  unlike  the  other 
men.  Father  and  son  were  both  in  the  cold, 
steel-gray,  sparkling  water,  when  Bert  sud 
denly  threw  his  axe  into  the  boat  and  turned 
half  staggering  toward  the  beach.  She  could 
see  Norton  shout  at  him  and  Bert  keep  on 
without  noticing.  When  he  reached  the 
sand,  he  dropped  down  where  the  men  were 
dragging  with  their  grappling  hooks  at  the 


1 66     CAPTOR   OF   OLD    PONTOMOC 

stranded  logs.  Norton  followed,  picked  the 
boy  up,  carried  him  back  to  the  boat,  and 
rowed  with  him  toward  the  house.  She 
knew  what  had  happened.  Bert  had  taken  a 
chill. 

She  met  them  at  the  door  without  a  word, 
and  to  Bert's  half-faint  perception  she  had 
never  looked  so  tall,  pale,  large-eyed,  and 
executive.  There  was  something  cruel  to 
him  in  the  swift  deftness  of  her  touch  as  she 
helped  his  father  get  him  into  bed.  The 
boy  wondered  dizzily  if  two  of  the  glis 
tening,  compassionless,  unceasing  saws  at  the 
awful  mill  would  not  chafe  him  and  ply  him 
with  hot  drinks  and  plasters  in  just  as  sympa 
thetic  a  way.  He  could  have  cried  for  a 
little  mothering,  the  sweet,  tender  ways  that 
had  been  his  comfort  always.  But  once, 
when  he  threw  them  both  aside  impatiently 
and  tottered  to  his  feet  and  almost  fell,  she 
cried  out  to  his  father,  "  Robert !  Robert !  " 
in  the  soft,  piercing  mother-cry  that  makes 
the  heart  stand  still.  When  Norton  laid  him 
back  on  his  bed  she  threw  herself  beside  the 
boy,  kissing  his  cold  hands  and  bluish,  sunken 
cheeks,  and  telling  him  to  lie  still,  as  if  he 
felt  that  he  could  ever  move  again.  He 
smiled  at  her  feebly  and  was  content.  When 
she  raised  her  head  Norton  had  gone. 

Throwing  a  final  covering  over  Bert,  she 


TALES  167 

ran  out  and  overtook  her  husband  half-way 
to  the  boat. 

"  You're  not  leaving  him?  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,"  said  Norton,  without  slackening 
speed. 

"To  get  the  doctor?"  she  asked,  linking 
her  arm  into  his  and  hastening  beside  him,  one 
hand  clutched  tight  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

"  No,"  answered  Norton,  trying  roughly  to 
shake  himself  free.  "  Bert  will  be  all  right 
in  two  or  three  hours ;  it's  simply  a  chill 
from  the  cold  water.  He  takes  it  like  a 
baby ;  I've  worked  through  plenty  like  it. 
Don't  drag  on  me.  I  must  get  back." 

Mary  Norton  dropped  his  arm  and  stepped 
in  front  of  him.  The  patience  that  had 
lasted  almost  twenty  years  was  burned  from 
her  eyes  like  a  film  ;  they  shone  on  him  clear 
and  wide  with  wrath.  "  What  are  you  getting 
back  to?"  she  asked. 

"Work,"  said  Norton  grimly,  and  then 
her  new  face  caught  him  and  puzzled  him. 
"Why,  Mary,"  he  began,  in  a  gentler  voice. 

"What  are  you  working  for?"  she  de 
manded.  "My  comfort?  Look  at  me!" 
She  swept  her  arms  apart  over  her  faded 
calico  dress  and  thin,  worn  figure.  Then  she 
pointed  to  the  house.  "His  comfort?  Oh, 
he  has  a  happy  life,  a  care-free,  boyish  life 
to  bless  his  father  for !  Do  you  remember 


1 68    CAPTOR   OF   OLD    PONTOMOC 

how  you  lived  when  you  were  a  boy,  what 
freedom  you  had,  and  opportunities?  Do 
you  remember  the  schools  you  had  and  the 
friends  you  had?  And  Elizabeth  —  does  it 
cost  you  this  effort  to  keep  her  where  she  is, 
the  jest  and  the  scorn  of  the  town?  Robert 
Norton,  I  have  kept  my  peace  too  long,  and 
now  you  shall  tell  me  what  it  means." 

As  Norton  listened  to  her  a  slow  anguish 
rose  and  conquered  the  driven  look  on  his 
face.  All  the  tension  of  his  muscles  relaxed. 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  in  a  motion  of 
utter  weariness  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  broken 
voice. 

"  Man*,"  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

"  I  am  waiting,"  she  answered.  For  a 
moment  they  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes, 
his  pitiful  with  appeal,  hers  unrelenting. 

Suddenly  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to 
him.  "  Tell  me  what  it  is,  Robert,"  she 
pleaded.  "  Since  we  were  married  you  have 
been  keeping  something  from  me.  I  felt  it 
in  the  first  kiss  you  gave  me  when  you  came 
home  to  marry  me.  Haven't  you  seen  how 
I  have  waited  and  trusted  you  ?  Haven't  I 
been  faithful  enough  to  deserve  trust  too? 
Oh,  Robert,  it  would  be  easier  for  you  to' 
bear  it  if  I  were  helping  you  !  I  know  it's 
nothing  wrong.  I  don't  care  whether  it  is 
anything  wrong,  only  tell  me,  tell  me !  " 


TALES  169 

Norton  lifted  up  his  hand  to  check  her. 
"  I'm  so  tired,  Mary,"  he  said  simply,  "and 
I've  so  much  to  do  to-day.  I  don't  know 
what  you  mean  by  my  having  a  secret. 
When  have  I  ever  thought  of  anything  but 
you  and  the  children?  What  could  I  work 
for  except  to  make  you  happy?  I  thought 
you  always  knew  that  I  meant  everything  for 
the  best.  You  all  do  work  hard,  dear,  but 
don't  I  too?  By  and  by  we'll  get  into  easier 
times  and  take  things  easier,  if  I  could  only 
put  aside  enough  to  make  you  safe  in  a  rainy 
day.  I  —  I  don't  know  you,  Mary,  when  you 
reproach  me  like  this.  You  take  all  the 
nerve  for  work  out  of  me,  but  I  must  go  on." 

In  her  appeal  Mary  had  gone  close  to  her 
husband,  but  he  seemed  too  physically  weary 
to  touch  her.  Now  she  clung  to  him  a 
moment  entrcatingly.  "  You  will  go  and  get 
the  doctor,  just  for  my  sake,  won't  you?" 
she  begged  ;  "and  then  come  back  to  me  and 
rest.  You  are  so  worn,  and  the  work  will  go 
on  without  you." 

Norton  gathered  himself  into  his  old  tense 
ness,  and  freed  himself  from  her  impatiently. 
"  The  doctor !  "  he  cried.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you 
that  Bert  doesn't  need  a  doctor?  Don't  you 
know  that  we  can't  afford  unnecessary  ex 
pense?  And  I  must  work,  or  all  that  we  own 
will  go  to  ruin.  Don't  tempt  me  ! 


i;o    CAPTOR   OF   OLD   PONTOMOC 

The  hunted  look  had  come  back  to  him 
intensified.  His  wife  turned  from  it  and 
groped  her  way  toward  the  house,  blinded  by 
her  tears.  Suddenly  Norton  followed  her 
and  caught  her  close. 

"  Don't  you  see  how  hard  you  make  it  for 
me  ?  "  he  asked,  with  passion.  "  Don't  you 
love  me?  Don't  you  trust  me  any  more?" 

She  let  her  head  fall  against  his  breast  and 
lifted  to  him  a  face  which  was  brilliant  with 
supreme  renunciation.  Hope,  and  the  hope 
of  hope,  were  dead,  but  faith  abided.  "  I  trust 
you,  I  love  you,"  she  whispered.  "  Kiss  me 
and  go."  And  Norton  kissed  her  wildly, 
snatching  the  time  like  a  thief. 

The  force  at  the  mill  had  worked  in  the 
ditch  until  there  were  but  a  few  yards  of 
bar  dividing  them  from  the  low  water  in 
the  channel.  The  wind  had  held  north  all 
the  morning,  although  it  had  grown  light,  but 
now  it  seemed  to  be  veering,  and  Stewart 
urged  the  men  to  increased  effort,  for  he 
knew  that  if  it  reached  the  east  or  south  it 
would  help  the  buffeted  tide  back  into  the 
shallow  inland  waters.  Their  work  would 
seem  lost  if  they  had  to  leave  it  unfinished  to 
be  taken  up  in  some  other  time  of  stress. 
Unfortunately  the  men  were  now  so  far  out 
from  the  bank  that  by  straightening  they 
commanded  a  long  stretch  of  the  bayou  with 


TALES  171 

no  Norton  in  sight.  They  were  tired,  and 
even  the  certainty  that  they  would  be  called 
the  more  severely  to  account  when  he  came 
did  not  weigh  much  against  the  godsend  of 
his  long  absence,  and  they  fell  into  a  jogging 
gait  that  was  maddening  to  Stewart. 

"It's  mighty  queer  what's  tuck  'em,"  said 
Tilman,  the  easy-going  man  who  had  the 
most  unbounded  time  for  anxiety;  "  if  Lar- 
geon  was  here,  hit  wouldn't  look  so  strange 
fer  the  ole  man  to  stay  away ;  an'  if  the  ole 
man  was  here  we  wouldn't  have  no  incline- 
ation  to  be  a-studyin'  'bout  Largeon ;  but 
with  'em  both  gone,  hit  'pears  like  we're 
kind  o'  lost.  Don't  you  sense  hit  that-a-way, 
Mr.  Stewart?  I  declare  I'd  like  to  know 
what's  run  off  with  Largeon."  He  raised  to 
his  tiptoes  in  one  more  survey  down  the 
bayou  for  Norton,  and  up  the  bank  where 
the  road  ran  alongside  and  Largeon's 
mounted  figure  would  be  visible  from  far. 
"  Gee  whittakers,  boys,  they're  both  a-com- 
in',"  he  shouted.  "  I  bet  you  my  doag  the 
ole  man  gets  in  ahead." 

As  if  each  saw  the  other,  the  new-comers 
strained  for  their  goal ;  the  men  fell  to  work 
in  earnest,  but  stretched  up  again  and  again 
for  a  swift  glance  at  the  race ;  Tilman  alone 
dropped  his  shovel  and  watched  unremit 
tingly,  reporting  to  the  rest.  Norton,  who 


172     CAPTOR   OF   OLD   PONTOMOC 

knew  the  channel  too  well  to  glance  over  his 
shoulder,  did  not  see  him,  and  Largeon, 
throwing  himself  forward  over  his  little  mus 
tang,  rode  for  all  he  was  worth  until  the 
lumber  drying  in  the  millyard  halted  him 
abruptly.  With  a  cracked  scream  he  drove 
the  spurs  into  his  pony  and  tried  to  leap  the 
pile  of  boards.  Every  man  dropped  his  tools 
at  the  sound.  Stewart  started  to  run  up 
the  bank,  but  half  a  dozen  men  caught  him 
back. 

"  Don't  touch  him,"  shouted  Tilman  ;  "  he's 
ravin'  drunk.  Let  him  an'  the  beast  fight  hit 
out  alone." 

"  We  must  get  him  off  and  away,"  urged 
Stewart,  struggling  to  free  himself.  "  Norton 
will  land  in  a  minute.  Let  me  go." 

But  the  men  held  on  to  him.  "  Largeon's 
mighty  slow  to  mad,  but  when  he's  madded 
or  drunk  you'd  just  better  clear  the  track," 
Tilman  remonstrated,  craning  his  neck  to 
watch  without  losing  his  grip  on  Stewart's 
arm.  "  Lord,  but  he's  a-waxin'  hit  to  the 
pore  beast !  Boys,  some  of  you  had  ought 
to  stop  him.  He's  off'n  her  and  a-takin'  a 
piece  o'  scantlin'  to  her." 

Stewart  flung  himself  free,  but  was  snatched 
back  by  half  the  men.  The  other  half  ran  up 
the  bank,  roused  at  last  by  the  shrill  outcries 
of  the  mustang  under  Largeon's  awful  blows. 


TALES  173 

Ahead  of  them,  like  a  resistless  bolt  from  the 
bayou,  rushed  Norton. 

"  Stop  that !  "  he  shouted.  "  Stop  that ! 
Let  that  horse  go  !  " 

"  That's  my  beast,  damn  you,"  whooped 
Largeon,  "  and  I'm  a  free  man  to-day,  I'm  a 
free  man !  " 

They  faced  each  other  across  the  leaping, 
bleeding  horse,  and  all  the  laborers  drew 
back.  Norton's  face  was  gray  with  furious 
command :  Largeon's  whole  mighty  frame 
shook  with  the  rebellion  that  flared  in  his 
opened  face. 

"  Let  her  go  !  "  thundered  Norton. 

With  a  yell  Largeon  loosed  the  pony,  and 
as  she  darted  from  between  them,  he  raised 
his  bloody  timber  and  swung  it  fair  at 
Norton's  head. 

"  I'm  a  free  man,"  he  shrieked,  and  as 
Norton  fell  he  raised  the  club  again,  but  it 
dropped  to  his  side  and  he  ran  into  the 
woods.  "  I've  done  it  again,"  he  cried 
madly,  "  I've  done  it  again  !  " 

"  After  him  !  After  him  !  "  shouted  Stewart, 
and  a  dozen  men  dashed  off  into  the  woods. 
The  rest  crowded  round  Norton's  prostrate 
figure,  while  Stewart  knelt  beside  it  with  a 
face  almost  as  ghastly  as  its  own. 

"  Stand  aside,"  ordered  the  young  man 
sharply.  "  Seymour,  take  the  horse  I  had 


174    CAPTOR   OF   OLD    PONTOMOC 

and  get  the  doctor,  but  don't  speak  a  word 
to  anybody  else  in  the  village.  Understand?" 

"  Stop  !  "  said  a  husky  voice  behind  them 
all,  and  the  men,  turning,  jumped  as  one  to 
grapple  Largeon.  "  Leave  me  alone,"  he 
ordered ;  "  I've  come  to  stay.  Seymour,  you 
get  that  old  French  doctor  that's  just  opened 
his  shop  by  the  post-office.  Don't  bother 
with  the  young  man  —  he's  a  fool ;  get  the 
old  one." 

"  Get  one  of  them,  and  quick,"  Stewart 
said,  and  Seymour  galloped  off.  Largeon 
pressed  in  close  to  Norton. 

"  No,  he's  not  quite  dead,"  said  Stewart 
fiercely,  "  but  don't  begin  to  breathe  too  easy. 
I  doubt  if  all  the  doctors  in  the  world  can 
keep  you  from  hanging — don't  touch  him  !  " 

But  Largeon  had  his  hand  on  Norton's 
heart.  As  he  took  it  away  he  leaned  toward 
the  fallen  face.  "  Old  man,"  he  said  in  a 
strange,  tender  voice,  "I'm  afeard  there  ain't 
much  chance  for  you  this  time.  You  had 
ought  to  have  knowed  me  better."  Then,  as 
if  the  long  wound  on  Norton's  head  had  a 
fascination  for  him,  he  made  as  if  to  touch 
it,  but  recoiled  and  flung  himself  on  the 
ground  beside  the  death-like  figure,  his  own 
rugged  form  convulsed. 

Stewart  gave  a  bitter  sound  like  a  laugh 
and  touched  Largeon  with  his  foot.  "  Keep 


TALES  175 

guard  of  him,  boys,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know 
what's  brought  him  back,  but  he's  likely  to 
make  a  new  break  in  some  direction.  Keep 
guard  of  him." 

"  'E  will  not  go,"  said  one  of  the  older 
Creoles.  "  'E  'ave  somesing  on  de  mind.  I  'ave 
often  t'ought,  me,  dat  Largeon  'ave  somesing 
on  de  mind,  or  'e  couldn'  stan'  so  much  from 
de  ole  man." 

Largeon  lifted  himself  squarely.  "  Yo're 
right,"  he  said  ;  "  I  have  had  somethin'  on  my 
mind.  When  Bob  Norton  first  came  down 
here  a-prospectin'  I  guided  him  in  the  piney 
woods  and  I  helped  him  raft  his  first  pen 
o'  logs  over  to  Potosi ;  an'  one  day  I  got 
tearin'  drunk,  'cause  the  water  was  cold,  an'  I 
batted  him  over  the  head  with  a  pole  until  I 
thought  he  was  dead,  an'  that  turned  me 
sober.  When  he  got  well  he  wouldn't  say 
anything  about  it.  He  kept  me  on  a-workin' 
for  him,  but  he  ain't  never  been  the  same  man 
since.  That's  what  I've  had  on  my  mind." 
His  face  quivered,  but  he  stared  defiantly  at 
Stewart.  "An"  if  you  think,"  he  added,  "that 
I'm  gallows-skeered,  yo're  way  off.  I  can't 
be  hung  too  quick  to  suit  me  after  I've  seed 
that  the  right  thing's  done  by  Bob  Norton." 

The  men  stood  silent  in  a  ring  about 
Norton,  Largeon,  and  Stewart.  The  clear 
winter  sun  beat  down  on  the  stacks  of  odor- 


1 76    CAPTOR   OF   OLD    PONTOMOC 

cms  lumber,  and  the  shadows  of  the  pine-trees 
flickered  over  them.  The  woods  pressed 
close  to  the  bayou  around  the  stirless  mill. 

"And  nobody  knew  of  this  but  you  two?" 
Stewart  asked  at  last. 

"  Yes,"  said  Largeon,  "  the  little  old  French 
doctor  knowed,  but  I  reckon  he  was  used  to 
keepin'  secrets,  an'  he  never  told.  Nobody 
knowed  he  was  a  doctor  then,  —  they  say  he'd 
made  some  sort  of  a  oath  not  to  doctor,  an' 
he's  only  just  broke  it,  —  but  his  cabin  was 
the  only  one  near,  so  I  took  Bob  there.  The 
little  Frenchman  wouldn't  touch  him,  but  he 
told  me  what  to  do,  so  I  brought  Bob  round, 
an'  that's  why  I  know  he's  the  man  to  have 
now." 

"  He's  cured  some  mighty  bad  cases  since 
he  begun  to  doctor  there  in  town,"  one  of  the 
men  ventured,  in  a  subdued  voice ;  and  then 
silence  laid  a  hand  upon  them,  while  they 
listened  for  the  sound  of  hoofs.  Stewart's 
thoughts  escaped  from  the  man  at  his  feet 
into  an  agony  of  pity  for  Elizabeth. 

At  last  they  caught  the  swinging  rush  of  a 
horse.  Largeon  started  up  from  the  crouch 
ing  guard  he  had  kept  by  Norton,  and  every 
one  turned  to  see  the  short,  chubby  French 
doctor  clinging  desperately  to  the  saddle. 
The  eager  men  ran  out  to  meet  him.  He 
clambered  down  and  hurried  to  Norton  with 


TALES 


177 


a  heated  face  that  grew  very  pale  as  he  knelt 
by  the  wounded  man,  examining  him  briefly. 
Stewart  and  Largeon  waited  as  near  him  as 
they  dared.  He  turned  to  Largeon,  laying  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  weel  do  w'at  I  can,"  he  said  gravely; 
"  a-ah,  'ow  I  was  a  br-rute  —  you  know  ze 
time  !  "  Then  he  told  Stewart  that  Norton 
must  be  taken  home  as  quickly  as  possible. 

"  Some  one  should  go  ahead  to  prepare 
Mrs.  Norton,"  Stewart  said  anxiously,  "  and 
some  one  must  go  to  the  village  to  tell  his 
daughter." 

"  Write  a  word  to  the  girl  —  one  of  the  boys 
can  take  it  to  her —  an'  then  take  her  home," 
said  Largeon  decisively.  "  You  go  yourself 
to  Mis'  Norton,  an'  tell  Bert  if  you  meet  up 
with  him  on  the  bayou.  Doc  here'll  lookout 
for  the  old  man.  I'll  carry  him  down  to  the 
boat  when  it's  fixed,  an'  then  some  o'  the 
boys  can  take  me  along  to  the  lockup.  I'll 
go  easy  now  the  old  doc  is  on  hand." 

Stewart  had  torn  a  leaf  from  his  note-book 
and  was  writing  on  it.  "  Yes,"  he  said 
abstractedly,  his  mind  full  of  its  own  pain, 
"  I  reckon  that's  as  good  as  we  can  do  all 
round.  Here,  Narcisse,  take  this  to  Miss 
Elizabeth,  and  then  shut  the  store  for  her  and 
bring  her  home.  And,  Narcisse,  I  can  trust 
you — tell  her  a  good  deal  of  how  things  are, 


i;8     CAPTOR   OF   OLD    PONTOMOC 

but  don't  frighten  her  —  do  your  best.     Doc 
tor,  I'll  start  at  once." 

He  was  hurrying  toward  the  landing  when 
some  one  caught  his  arm.  "  For  God's  sake," 
cried  Largeon  hoarsely,  "  don't  go  without 
saying  that  you'll  keep  sending  the  boys  over 
to  tell  me  how  he's  comin'  on.  I'll  carry  him, 
dead  like  he  is,  down  to  the  boat,  an'  I'll  never 
see  him  again.  If  he  dies  I'll  hang,  if  he  gets 
well  I'll  skip  the  country.  In  God's  name 
tell  'em  both,  if  I  go,  that  I'll  never  blacken 
their  daylight  again." 

"  Largeon,"  said  Stewart,  with  impulsive 
pity  —  and  then  the  anguish  of  the  rough 
man  dumbed  him.  No  possibility  of  the 
future  could  reach  back  and  change  the  past, 
and  what  comfort  could  Stewart  give  out  of 
his  quiet,  self-controlled  life?  He  passed  his 
hand  gently  over  Largeon's.  "  I'll  tell  them," 
he  said,  "  and  I'll  keep  you  posted.  Good- 
by." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Largeon,  and  went  back 
to  stay  by  Norton  until  the  doctor  had 
finished  making  such  a  bed  as  he  could  of 
coats  and  pine-straw  in  one  of  the  boats. 
Just  as  it  was  finished  a  party  of  men  from 
the  village  came  up  excitedly,  and  one  of 
them  touched  the  watcher's  arm. 

"  I  arrest  you  on  charge  of  assault  with 
intent  to  kill,"  said  the  new-comer. 


TALES 


179 


"  All  right,"  said  Largeon,  "  but  just  stand 
back  a  minute."  And  as  if  he  alone  had  the 
right,  he  lifted  Norton's  limp  body  and 
carried  it  solemnly  to  the  boat.  The  men 
\vho  were  to  go  with  the  doctor  took  their 
places,  and  Largeon  pushed  them  off  into 
the  returning  tide.  Then  he  felt  the  consta 
ble's  hand  on  his  arm  again.  With  his 
needless  escort  surrounding  him,  he  walked 
back  toward  the  village,  the  unemployed 
workmen  trailing  behind. 

While  Stewart  was  tying  his  boat  at  Nor 
ton's  pier,  Mrs.  Norton  came  out  of  the  house 
and  down  the  path  as  if  she  expected  him. 
Her  face  had  the  calm  of  one  who  has  seen 
the  end  of  things.  "  Tell  me  out  here  what 
it  is,"  she  said  ;  "  Bert  is  very  sick  and  has 
just  begun  to  doze." 

Stewart  told  her  as  mercifully  as  he  could. 
"I  know,"  she  said  softly;  "come  in  and 
help  me  get  ready  for  him,  but  be  very  still." 

Stewart  followed  her  in  a  sort  of  awe,  and 
they  made  what  changes  were  necessary  in 
Norton's  room.  Then  the  boat  came.  Nor 
ton  was  carried  to  his  bed,  and  the  house 
stood  in  death-like  pause  while  the  doctor 
began  his  work.  Norton's  skull  was  seriously 
fractured,  and  splinters  of  bone  would  have 
to  be  removed.  It  was  just  where  Largeon's 
blow  had  fallen  twenty  years  before.  The 


1 8o    CAPTOR   OF    OLD    PONTOMOC 

skull  had  thickened  in  healing  so  as  to  leave 
a  pressure  on  the  brain.  Seeing  this,  the  old 
hermit  surgeon,  who  had  scarcely  looked  at 
Norton  save  the  once  when  he  had  stood 
apart  directing  the  awkward  bandaging  of  that 
first  wound,  now  felt  himself  side  by  side 
with  Largeon,  accountable  to  all  who  had  suf 
fered  from  the  awful  stress  of  twenty  years. 

Elizabeth's  white  face  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  frightened  yet  strong.  Her  mother 
sent  her  up  to  watch  with  Bert,  who  was  toss 
ing  from  one  feverish  nap  to  another,  waking 
just  long  enough  to  feel  injured  and  call  his 
mother  if  he  found  himself  alone.  When 
Elizabeth  entered  he  was  lying  quietly,  with 
bright  roving  eyes  that  fastened  upon  her 
without  surprise.  Finally  he  spoke. 

"Wasn't  it  a  pity?"  he  said  reminiscently ; 
"  I'd  sure  of  had  that  duck  if  father  hadn't 
come." 

"  Yes,  it  was  a  pity,"  the  girl  answered 
sadly,  and  slipping  from  her  chair  she  laid 
her  face  beside  Bert's  on  the  pillow.  He 
reached  over  and  patted  her  caressingly. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  sis?"  he 
asked.  "All  used  up  about  father  again? 
Don't  mind  so  much  ;  we  always  have  mother 
anyway." 

Elizabeth  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 
Her  mother  had  told  her  not  to  let  Bert 


TALES  181 

know.  Bert's  hand  rested  upon  her  like 
Stewart's.  She  closed  her  eyes.  At  last 
she  felt  his  touch  softly  slipping  away.  She 
sat  up,  and  finding  that  he  had  dropped 
asleep,  she  stole  downstairs. 

There  was  very  little  to  learn.  The  doctor 
worked  with  the  dexterity  of  one  who  knew 
his  skill  and  loved  it.  Mrs.  Norton  and 
Stewart  stood  by,  alertly  watchful.  The 
lapping  of  the  ripples  on  the  shore  came 
through  the  open  window  like  the  heart 
beats  of  one  who  listens.  Elizabeth  went  in 
and  took  the  place  that  was  hers  by  her 
mother's  side. 

At  last  the  doctor  laid  by  his  instruments 
and  motioned  to  Stewart  to  follow  him. 
They  went  outside  together  and  their  voices 
murmured  earnestly;  then  Stewart  came 
back,  leaving  the  doctor  with  his  head  sunk 
on  his  breast.  The  two  women  had  been 
standing  at  the  bedside,  hand  gripped  in 
hand,  but  as  Stewart  entered,  Mrs.  Norton 
swayed  a  little  and  sank  on  to  a  chair.  He 
went  to  her  with  a  look  that  was  stranger 
than  joy. 

"  The  doctor  tells  you  to  hope,"  he  said, 
"  and  not  for  life  only."  He  paused  and 
looked  across  to  Elizabeth.  She  stared  back 
almost  in  terror,  but  Mary  Norton  quivered 
to  her  feet. 


1 82     CAPTOR   OF    OLD   PONTOMOC 

"Do  you  mean?"  she  tried  to  say,  but 
there  was  only  a  motion  of  her  lips.  Her 
eyes  besought  him. 

Stewart  steadied  himself  with  his  hand  on 
a  chair.  "Has — has  he  changed  in  any 
way  since  you  first  knew  him?"  he  began 
falteringly;  but,  like  one  who  meets  the 
returning  dead,  she  swept  him  aside  and 
knelt  beside  her  husband. 

The  bay  rippled  on  and  the  shadows 
lengthened.  There  was  a  tremor  over  Nor 
ton's  face  and  he  sighed.  Once  his  eyelids 
fluttered,  but  life  did  not  look  out  to  say 
whether  it  was  the  soul  of  youth  or  manhood 
that  was  struggling  back.  Once  he  moved 
his  hand  slightly,  seeking  something.  She 
took  it  in  hers  as  if  she  feared  to  frighten  it. 

At  last,  slowly,  wonderingly,  his  eyes 
opened,  and  across  the  gulf  of  years  her 
lover  smiled. 


A   LITTLE    MOUNTAIN   MAID 

THE  great  mountains  peered  over  one  an 
other's  shoulders  and  watched  Georgia 
Blount  at  her  play.  Bald  Top,  Crab's  Claw, 
and  Old  Surly  stood  nearest ;  sometimes  they 
seemed  so  near  that  Georgia  could  talk  to 
them,  and  when  a  low-hanging  cloud  shut 
them  out  of  sight,  or  the  blue  autumn  haze 
veiled  them  softly  and  held  them  aloof  from 
her,  she  felt  as  other  children  feel  when  their 
friends  turn  away  or  refuse  to  tell  what  the 
thoughts  are  in  their  eyes. 

A  gnarled  tree  grew  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff 
which  lifted  the  big  dome  of  Copper  Head 
above  the  mountain  side,  and  between  the 
roots  of  this  tree  Georgia  had  her  playhouse. 
Day  in  and  day  out  no  one  ever  came  in  sight 
of  it  except  the  mountains,  but  Georgia  was 
never  lonely.  In  the  mornings  she  had  to 
take  all  her  dolls  out  of  their  beds  of  moss 
and  dress  them  in  fresh  gowns  of  summer  or 
autumn  leaves  or  in  stiff,  fringy  costumes  of 
pine  needles.  She  was  very  much  in  earnest 
about  her  dolls,  and  yet  she  sometimes 
clapped  her  hands  and  laughed  when  they 


1 84      A   LITTLE    MOUNTAIN    MAID 

were  dressed  and  leaning  in  a  long  row  against 
one  of  the  roots,  they  made  such  an  elfin  com 
pany.  Some  of  them  had  nuts  for  heads  and 
some  of  them  had  acorns.  Some  of  them  had 
been  made  out  of  the  dry,  rounded  receptacles 
of  a  composite  flower  from  which  the  florets 
had  fallen  and  the  winged  seeds  flown  away, 
leaving  only  a  circle  of  bracts  for  a  collar  and 
a  brittle  stem  with  two  branches  from  which 
the  flower  ends  had  been  nipped  off  for  arms. 
These  were  the  most  fragile  of  Georgia's  chil 
dren,  and  it  took  a  skilful  hand  to  make  their 
toilets  without  snapping  their  necks  or  their 
bodies  or  their  limbs.  Georgia  could  do  it, 
for  she  loved  them  and  she  had  been  dress 
ing  them  ever  since  she  was  big  enough  to 
wander  off  by  herself  up  the  mountain  side 
and  through  the  forest  which  separated  the 
home  clearing  from  the  rugged  boulder- 
strewn  slope  below  the  playhouse  tree  and 
the  rock  walls  of  the  dome. 

Georgia  was  much  bigger  now  than  when 
she  had  begun  to  fashion  dolls  for  herself  with 
chubby,  awkward  fingers ;  she  was  so  much 
bigger  indeed  that  she  was  fourteen  years  old 
and  might  have  thought  that  she  was  grow 
ing  up  if  there  had  been  any  one  to  suggest  it 
to  her ;  but  she  had  seen  no  other  children 
growing  up,  and  the  mountains  did  not  tell 
her,  for  they  themselves  had  taken  so  long  to 


TALES  1 85 

grow  that  it  never  occurred  to  them  that  she 
would  not  continue  to  be  a  little  girl  for 
centuries  and  centuries  to  come.  She  had 
work  to  do  at  home  now,  and  that  was  an 
interruption,  yet  every  day,  before  or  after 
work,  she  managed  to  slip  off  toward  the 
forest  path. 

Among  her  dolls  there  was  one  made  of 
corncob,  and  far  larger  than  the  others,  and 
this  one  Georgia  dressed  as  a  man.  He  was  a 
very  wicked-looking  doll,  having  deep-black 
eyes  and  nose  and  mouth,  which  she  had 
burned  into  his  head  with  a  hot  iron  nail, 
and  it  was  because  he  was  so  different  from 
the  rest  that  she  had  named  him  "  the  fur- 
eigner,"  after  the  way  of  Southern  mountain 
people  in  speaking  of  any  stranger  who  comes 
among  them.  "The  fureigner"  lived  in  a 
corner  all  by  himself  at  the  back  of  the  tree, 
and  Georgia  always  knew  that  when  he  came 
out  among  the  others  there  was  mischief 
brewing.  Sometimes  she  walked  slowly  from 
the  tree,  gathering  leaves  and  grasses  as  she 
went,  and  then  as  soon  as  she  could  slip 
away  from  herself  hurried  stealthily  back, 
pulled  the  foreigner  out  of  his  corner, 
dropped  him  among  the  other  dolls,  and  ran 
to  her  leaf-gathering  again,  so  that  she  might 
be  surprised  when  she  finally  returned  and 
found  how  he  had  been  ramping  up  and  down 


1 86      A   LITTLE    MOUNTAIN   MAID 

among  her  mountain  people.  "  Oh,  happy 
kingdom,"  she  always  cried,  when  she  caught 
sight  of  him,  "  he  have  come  agin  ;  and  oh, 
how  he  do  have  been  a-layin'  waste  the 
land !  " 

One  day,  as  she  stood  with  her  hands  held 
up  in  horror  at  a  row  of  mountain  people  who 
had  fallen  prostrate  round  the  savage  for 
eigner,  a  real  stranger  came  out  from  the 
thick  forest  and  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  nat 
ural  opening  around  the  playhouse  tree.  He 
saw  her  at  once,  barefooted,  red-cheeked,  with 
her  figured  bandana  knotted  at  her  throat; 
and  he  could  hear  her  speak,  but  she  who 
should  have  been  as  quick-eared  as  a  rabbit, 
being  just  as  shy,  was  too  intent  to  notice  the 
stirring  of  his  feet  in  the  sparse  dry  autumn 
grass. 

"  Folkses  !  folkses  !  "  she  cried  out,  "  we's 
obleeged  ter  run  him  off  the  mounting.  He's 
a  fureigner,  an'  he  ain't  got  no  right  hyar. 
We's  obleeged  ter  run  him  off  the  mounting." 

The  man  who  listened  drew  a  little  closer, 
trying  not  to  make  a  noise.  He  knew  that 
he  himself  was  a  "  fureigner,"  and  he  wanted 
to  hear  whatever  the  girl  might  say,  but  he 
laughed  right  out  when  he  saw  that  she 
was  pointing  at  the  corncob  doll.  Georgia 
jumped,  gave  a  single  glance  over  her 
shoulder,  and  ran.  It  was  one  thing  to  plan 


TALES  187 

raids  on  an  intruder  whom  she  had  dropped 
into  the  playhouse  behind  her  own  back,  but 
this  —  this  was  another  thing. 

Only  a  little  way  from  the  tree  there  was 
a  crevice  in  the  bluff  which  rose  behind  it. 
Georgia  knew  that  it  wound  for  a  long  dis 
tance  between  a  detached  rock  and  the  main 
bluff,  and  she  slipped  into  it  with  such  a  sense 
of  protection  that  she  stopped  a  moment  to 
wonder  if  she  had  been  cowardly  to  leave  her 
mountain  people  to  two  foreigners,  and  to 
listen  if  anything  was  going  on.  What  she 
heard  was  the  stranger  talking. 

"  Now  if  I  were  you,"  he  said,  "  I  should 
just  go  back  where  I  came  from  and  not 
disturb  a  respectable  community  like  this." 
Georgia  peeped  round  the  edge  of 
the  rock.  He  had  picked  her  foreigner  up 
and  was  smiling  into  his  evil  eyes.  "  So 
you  won't  tell  me  where  you  come  from?" 
he  said.  "  Oh,  well,  then,  I  don't  like  to, 
but  I'll  have  to  build  a  prison  and  put  you 
into  it !  "  He  took  his  hat  off  and  put  it 
over  the  corncob  foreigner.  "If  I  see  you 
trying  to  walk  off  with  that  calaboose  while 
I'm  building  the  jail,"  he  went  on  threat 
eningly,  "  I'll  just  inform  you  that  your 
name  is  Dennis,  young  man,  from  that  time 
on." 

The  sun,  which  had  been  an  impartial  wit- 


1 88      A   LITTLE   MOUNTAIN   MAID 

ness  of  this  arrest,  beat  down  amiably  upon  the 
little  mountain  people  with  their  queer  natural 
faces,  upon  the  calaboose,  and  upon  a  close- 
cropped  black  head  bent  to  the  building  of 
a  jail  from  jagged  bits  of  stone.  And  it  fell 
on  Georgia's  eager  face  and  figure,  for  bit 
by  bit  she  had  come  quite  outside  of  the 
shadowed  crevice  so  that  she  might  miss 
nothing  that  this  strange  man  did  and  said. 
But  he  did  not  look  her  way  —  he  was  too 
busy  building  up  the  jail. 

"  Most  disgraceful  thing  I  ever  heard  of," 
he  declared,  nodding  toward  the  captive 
under  the  hat.  "You  call  yourself  a  for 
eigner  doll,  do  you?  Don't  you  know  that 
where  the  foreigners  come  from  the  dolls  have 
long  curly  hair,  and  eyes  that  open  and  shut, 
and  red  mouths,  and  pink  cheeks,  and  arms  and 
legs  that  bend  just  as  well  as  mine  do,  and 
they  wear  fine  stockings  and  shoes,  and  some 
of  them  walk  about  and  say,  '  mam-ma,' 
'  pa-pa,'  —  and  their  clothes  "  — 

Georgia's  breath  was  coming  fast,  her  lips 
were  parted,  and  her  eyes  shone.  The  young 
man  who  was  building  the  jail  happened  to 
look  up  from  his  work  and  saw  her.  "  It's 
so,"  he  said  with  a  little  nod.  "  Did  you 
ever  see  any  like  that?" 

"  No,"  said  Georgia,  shaking  her  head.  A 
shadow  passed  over  the  neighboring  moun- 


TALES  189 

tains.  They  had  missed  all  such  marvels, 
too. 

"I  have,"  said  the  young  man,  —  "in  the 
toy-shop  windows,  but  I  suppose  you  have 
never  seen  the  toy-shops?" 

"  No,"  said  Georgia  again.  She  came  up 
to  where  he  was  building.  "  And  I  never 
seed  a  man  playin'  with  dolls  afore,  either," 
she  added.  "  Doesn't  you-uns  have  no  work 
to  do?" 

The  man  had  taken  off  a  box  and  a  bundle 
of  queer-looking  sticks  which  had  been  slung 
over  his  shoulder.  Now  he  left  the  jail  and 
began  unfastening  the  box.  "  Perhaps  you'll 
think  my  work  a  good  deal  the  same  as  doll- 
play,"  he  said.  He  took  two  or  three  boards 
with  pictures  on  them  from  the  box  and 
leaned  them  up  against  the  tree. 

"  Oh-h  !  "  breathed  Georgia. 

"  Those  are  the  dolls  I  make,"  he  said. 

"  But  that's  the  livin'  face  of  Jackson  Bar 
ker,"  she  cried,  pointing  to  one  of  them. 
"  Do  you-uns  claim  ter  ha'  made  hit  look 
like  that?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

"  I  wisht  you'd  tell  me  how." 

The  artist  smiled.  "It's  just  by  trying  — 
a  good  deal  as  it  is  with  you  in  making 
dolls,"  he  explained. 

She  went  up  close  and  looked  at  the  board 


190 


with  its  bit  of  canvas  tacked  on  it.  Then  she 
turned  a  puzzled  face  toward  him.  "  But  this 
hyar's  flat"  she  said,  "  an'  yet  it  looks  like 
hit  was  standin'  out.  I  couldn't  do  that  —  I 
couldn't  noways  make  a  doll  out'n  a  flat 
piece  o'  wood." 

"Would  you  like  to  see  me  do  it?"  he 
asked. 

She  nodded  silently. 

"  Then  we'll  begin  with  the  foreigner,"  he 
said.  "  I  suppose  there's  no  danger  in  letting 
him  out  now  that  you're  here  to  guard  him 
while  I  paint."  He  lifted  the  hat  gingerly 
with  his  finger  and  thumb,  and  he  and  Geor 
gia  both  laughed  as  they  saw  the  helpless 
way  in  which  the  corncob  doll  glared  up  into 
the  sunlight.  Georgia  set  him  up  against  the 
tree  in  the  severely  upright  position  which 
his  construction  demanded,  and  then  stood 
by  the  stranger's  elbow,  watching.  His 
bunch  of  brushes,  the  shining  tubes  from 
which  he  squeezed  dabs  of  color  on  to  his  pal 
ette,  the  jointed  easel  which  he  put  together 
and  set  up  so  quickly,  and  the  camp-stool  on 
which  he  seated  himself,  were  all  fascinating 
accessories  to  the  making  of  dolls,  either  flat 
or  round,  and  she  forgot  to  be  afraid.  The 
artist  glanced  at  the  corn-shuck  clothing  of 
the  foreigner  and  matched  it  with  a  mixture 
of  paint  which  he  blended  back  and  forth 


TALES  191 

with  a  brush,  while  he  asked  Georgia  ques 
tions  about  the  mountain  people.  When  he 
began  to  paint  she  drew  closer  and  closer 
until  she  was  leaning  at  his  very  elbow. 
Suddenly  she  caught  her  breath. 

"  Happy  kingdom,"  she  murmured,  "  you 
begun  it  flat  an'  now  you've  made  him  look 
ter  be  a-standin'  out,  an'  I  was  keepin'  watch 
an'  yet  I  didn't  see  you  when  you  did  hit !  " 

He  turned  round  to  laugh  at  her,  but  when 
he  saw  that  her  face  was  not  only  surprised 
but  frightened  he  did  not  laugh.  "  I'll  paint 
another,  and  paint  it  slower,"  he  said,  "and 
then  perhaps  you'll  see,"  and,  stooping,  he 
picked  up  the  gayest  of  her  dolls.  It  was 
dressed  in  dark-red  oak  leaves  slashed  with 
sumac,  and  its  head  was  a  hickory  nut  on 
which  she  had  traced  features  with  the  faint 
red  juice  of  a  berry. 

"  I'll  try  to  keep  a  pearter  watch,"  she  said 
gravely,  as  the  young  man  touched  the  oak- 
leaf  dress  upon  the  canvas.  In  spite  of  his 
promise  he  was  tempted  to  work  so  fast  that 
for  a  second  time  she  would  miss  "  seeing 
him  do  it,"  but  he  was  afraid  that  she  would 
run  away,  and  so  he  began  explaining  to  her 
how  the  form  began  to  stand  out  when  he 
put  in  the  shadows.  She  partly  understood 
him,  and  when  he  finished  the  doll  and  began 
painting  a  background  of  rough  brown  bark 


192      A   LITTLE    MOUNTAIN   MAID 

and  shadow  behind  it  she  scarcely  drew  her 
breath. 

"  Oh,  I  seed  you  !  I  seed  you  this  time  !  " 
she  cried  at  the  end,  "  an'  I  allow  I  could  do 
hit  too." 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  want  to  do  next?  " 
he  asked  without  looking  up.  "  I  want  to 
make  a  picture  of  you." 

"An'  put  me  over  where  you'd  look  at  me 
an'  I  couldn't  see  the  picter  begin  to  stand 
out?"  she  objected. 

"You  may  come  round  once  in  a  while 
and  look,"  the  young  man  promised.  This 
seemed  to  be  the  keenest  person  he  had 
found  yet  in  the  mountains,  where  most  of  the 
people  in  their  own  obscure  way  are  shrewd. 

She  stood  a  moment  pondering.  "I'll  do 
hit,"  she  said,  "  if  you-uns'll  keep  talkin'  to 
me  'bout'n  them-ar  dolls  —  like  you  was 
talkin'  to  the  fureigner.  You  know  I  ain't 
never  seed  a  real  doll.  Mammy  had  one 
when  she  was  little,  'cause  she  lived  in  the 
settlement,  but  my  aunt  what  lives  in  Crook- 
neck  Cove  smashed  hits  head  on  a  stone, 
a-playin'  with  hit,  so  I  ain't  never  seed  a 
doll." 

Her  face  was  very  wistful  —  too  wistful  for 
the  picture  that  the  artist  wanted.  "  Did  I  tell 
you  about  the  kind  that  have  eyes  that  open 
and  shut?"  he  asked  as  he  chose  a  brush. 


TALES 


193 


Georgia  looked  at  him  eagerly.  "  I  wisht 
you'd  tell  hit  over  ter  me,"  she  said. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I'll  tell  you 
about  every  doll  I  ever  saw"  — and  he  began 
to  work.  Georgia  could  not  watch  the  picture 
of  her  own  face  as  it  stood  swiftly  out  from 
the  fresh  canvas  on  the  easel,  but  her  eyes 
grew  each  moment  softer  and  brighter,  and 
more  bewildering  to  paint,  as  they  saw  another 
picture  all  in  words  unfold  against  the  back 
ground  of  the  forest.  The  shadows  length 
ened  on  the  mountains,  giving  them  the  look 
of  listening,  too,  for  they  had  seen  no  dolls 
but  Georgia's  in  all  their  years.  Georgia  was 
used  to  marking  the  hours  by  the  mountains, 
as  if  they  were  great  dials  which  had  been 
placed  in  sight  so  that  her  mother  would  not 
need  to  scold  her  for  coming  home  too  late, 
and  yet  she  did  not  notice  how  the  purple 
twilight  spread  from  the  ravines  and  rose  from 
slope  to  slope.  The  lower  spur  of  Crab's 
Claw  sank  beneath  it,  and  that  meant  that  it 
was  time  for  putting  all  her  dolls  to  bed,  but 
she  was  turning  the  coverlet  of  a  real  doll's 
bed,  far  in  the  North.  The  whole  of  Crab's 
Claw  sank  beneath  the  golden  level  of  the  sun 
beams,  and  she  should  have  started  home, 
but  she  was  where  a  myriad  glistening  lights 
were  making  all  the  marvellous  world  as 
white  as  day,  and  groups  of  people  lingered 


194      A   LITTLE    MOUNTAIN    MAID 

by  great  windows  full  of  toys.  The  sunset 
lingered  on  old  Bald  Top  in  the  east,  just  as 
a  patient  comrade  lingers,  and  calls  again. 

The  young  man  got  up  from  his  stool  and 
stuck  his  brushes  through  his  palette  just  as 
Bald  Top  faded  into  shadow  and  only  Old 
Surly  lifted  its  frowning  head  into  the  whole 
glory  of  the  west.  He  had  put  the  last  touch 
on  his  picture,  and  he  walked  away  and  looked 
at  it  with  a  contented  sigh.  Georgia  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  went  around  to  see.  She 
was  a  little  numb  from  sitting  still  so  long. 
"  Happy  kingdom,  but  hit's  jus'  like  lookin' 
inter  the  spring  er  the  water-bucket ! "  she  cried 
nervously.  "  I'm  right  much  better  favored 
than  the  fureigner,"  she  added,  glancing  down 
where  he  had  been  dropped  and  forgotten  at 
the  side  of  the  tree.  It  seemed  unreal  to 
come  back  into  her  little  home-made  world 
after  all  that  she  had  seen.  Even  her  moun 
tain  people  as  they  stared  up  with  their  inno 
cent  faces  made  her  heart  begin  to  ache. 
The  sun  was  out  of  sight,  and  the  stranger 
was  packing  up  his  box.  "  Is  you-uns  goin', 
too?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "  I'm  going  up  North 
where  the  dolls  are  !  I  wish  I  didn't  have  to 

go." 

"  But  you've  only  painted  one  of  the 
mounting  people,"  she  pleaded,  pointing 


TALES  195 

down  to  them.  It  did  not  seem  quite 
possible  that  after  one  such  golden  day  there 
should  be  a  to-morrow  when  she  would  have 
nothing  but  her  silent  mountains  and  her  tiny, 
silent  dolls. 

The  stranger  looked  at  the  dolls  as  they  lay 
patiently  waiting  for  their  portraits  in  a  row 
along  the  root.  "  And  I  haven't  finished  the 
jail,  either,"  he  laughed.  "  I  shall  have  to 
leave  all  that  to  you.  Good-by."  He  held 
out  his  hand. 

Georgia  took  it  mutely.  The  twilight  hush 
had  risen  so  that  it  filled  the  clearing  round 
the  playhouse  tree.  It  seemed  so  pitiful  to 
leave  her  standing  all  alone  in  it  that  a  sudden 
regret  came  into  the  stranger's  face.  "  I'm 
awfully  sorry  to  go,"  he  said. 

A  little  sob  choked  Georgia.  "Sorry?" 
she  cried,  "  when  you're  goin'  to  see  them 
dolls?" 

The  stranger  put  his  other  hand  over  the 
hand  of  hers  he  held.  "  You  dear  little  child," 
he  said,  "  don't  you  know  that  I'm  going  to 
send  one  of  those  dolls  to  you?" 

"  Oh  !  "  breathed  Georgia.  The  stranger 
was  tramping  off  into  the  woods,  but  the 
twilight  was  no  longer  lonely  now.  She 
stood  with  clasped  hands  watching  until  the 
trees  and  dimness  shut  him  out  of  sight. 

The  sunset  colors  lingered,  but  the  moon 


196      A   LITTLE   MOUNTAIN   MAID 

rose  over  Bald  Top,  and,  knowing  that  even 
the  happiest  little  girl  in  all  the  mountains 
must  not  stay  out  after  the  light  has  left  the 
west,  it  silvered  the  shadowy  path  in  front  of 
her  and  led  her  home. 


THE   GREAT   STATE   OF   JOHNSING 

MRS.  ANDERSON  HAROLD  sat  in 
her  doorway  flinging  handfuls  of  corn 
to  a  crowding,  elbowing  flock  of  chickens. 
She  was  slight  and  bent,  and  once  in  a  while, 
as  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  far  spread  of 
wild  green  hills,  her  face  had  a  dazed  expres 
sion  which  the  people  who  knew  her  had  seen 
in  it  for  years.  She  seemed  to  be  regarding 
the  world  with  sad,  uninterested  surprise. 

When,  with  the  nice  precision  of  a  sower, 
the  last  handful  of  corn  had  been  strewn 
upon  the  ground,  she  leaned  forward,  making 
a  motion  of  eagerness  which  contrasted  oddly 
with  her  immobile  features.  "  Now,  State  o' 
Johnsing,"  she  called  to  a  small  boy  who  was 
running  in  and  out  among  the  chickens, 
"  whilst  they's  busy  with  the  cawn,  you-uns 
hist  up  that-er  coop  an'  let  out  the  Plymmy- 
rocks." 

A  Plymouth-rock  hen  and  a  rooster, 
cramped  by  a  long  imprisonment,  stepped 
forth  gingerly  from  their  shelter,  cackled, 
crowed,  and  fell  to  picking  corn,  while  the 
flock  edged  round  and  eyed  them  suspi- 


198     GREAT   STATE   OF   JOHNSING 

ciously.  The  small  boy  took  a  stick  and 
made  a  foray  among  the  chickens  with  no 
intent  whatever  but  that  of  exercise.  His 
mother  watched  him,  smiling  wanly.  Then 
she  turned  her  head  and  spoke  to  some  one 
indoors. 

"  Come  out  hyar,  Sadie  Ophine,"  she  called  ; 
"  come  out  hyar  an'  see  the  Plymmy-rocks." 

Sadie  Ophine  came  to  the  door.  She  was 
young  and  rosy  and  defiant.  "  'Pears  like  I 
don't  keer  much  bout'n  the  Plymmy-rocks, 
maw,"  she  protested.  "  I've  nussed  them 
other  fowls  so  faithful  whilst  you-uns  was  gone 
that  hit  'pears  like  fowls  has  come  to  be  jus' 
simple  fowls  to  me,  stidder  Black  Spanish  an' 
Brammies  an'  scrub  stock  an'  Plymmy-rocks. 
Didn't  you-uns  bring  back  nothin'  more  on- 
common  from  Union  than  a  pair  o'  fowls?" 

Mrs.  Harold  glanced  uneasily  at  her 
daughter.  Sadie  had  come  to  an  age  when 
happier-looking  mothers  than  Mrs.  Harold 
sometimes  stand  a  little  in  awe  of  their 
daughters,  seeing  in  their  unworn  strength 
and  beauty  and  decisiveness  a  certain  right 
and  power  which  it  is  not  easy  to  deny.  The 
old  woman's  eyes  pleaded.  "  I  'lowed  you'd 
be  mighty  proud  o'  them  Plymmy-rocks,"  she 
said.  "  Why,  they  costed  two  dollars  an'  a 
half !  " 

"  I    should    ha'    liked    to    ha'    viewed    the 


TALES  199 

money,"  said  Sadie  Ophine,  unrelenting; 
"  that  would  ha'  been  a  most  oncommon 
sight." 

Mrs.  Harold  brightened  weakly.  "  Didn't 
the  Great  State  o'  Johnsing  show  you  his 
savings  bank?"  she  asked. 

"The  Great  which?"  demanded  Sadie 
Ophine.  "  Little  Andy  showed  me  his  sav 
ings  bank  an'  shook  his  thirteen  pennies  out 
an'  showed  'em  to  me  first  thing;  but  how 
did  you-uns  jus'  name  little  Andy?" 

Mrs.  Harold  smiled.  Little  Andy  seemed 
to  be  the  one  thing  in  the  world  that  was 
worth  smiling  about.  "  Hit's  so'thin'  more 
he's  brung  back  ;  hit's  a  new  name.  You  see, 
over  there  in  Union  the  boss  o'  the  berry- 
field  went  around  axin'  us  all  our  names,  an' 
whar  we  come  from,  an'  when  he  axed  me 
little  Andy  peartened  up  like  a  little  Banty 
rooster  a-crowin',  an'  afore  I  could  say  that  we 
come  from  Johnsing  County  little  Andy  up 
an'  allowed, '  We-uns  lives  in  the  Great  State  o' 
Johnsing,'  jus'  the  way  his  pore  pappy  uster 
larn  him.  The  men  all  shouted,  an'  they  got 
ter  namin'  little  Andy  the  Great  State  o' 
Johnsing  ontil  I  got  wonted  to  hit  myself." 

Sadie  Ophine  shrugged  her  shoulders. 
"  'Pears  like  they  mus'  all  ha'  been  powerful 
dumb  to  call  such  a  undergrowed  little  feller 
by  such  a  overgrowed  name,"  she  declared. 


200    GREAT   STATE   OF   JOHNSING 

The  youthful  contempt  of  her  face  changed 
to  sternness.  "  Ain't  you  truly  made  no 
money,  maw,"  she  asked,  "  'ceptin'  them  thir 
teen  cents  in  little  Andy's  bank?" 

"  He  made  'em  all  by  his  little  self,"  said 
Mrs.  Harold,  "  an'  the  men  all  'lowed  to  him 
that  he  had  ought  to  have  a  savings  bank  to 
keep  'em  in,  an'  he  wanted  hit  so  bad  that 
'peared  like  hit  would  be  mighty  <?;/kind  not 
to  git  it  fur  him,  an'  then  the  Plymmy-rocks 
costed  two  dollars  an'  a  half,  'cause  they'se 
got  a  right  smart  string  o'  forebears,  an'  livin's 
mighty  high  thar  in  Union.  Hit  did  look 
some  days  like  I  was  a-makin'  a  pile  o' 
money  pullin'  strawberries,  an'  I  declare  hit 
'pears  mos'  like  somebody  had  stole  hit,  fur  I 
cain't  see  as  I've  brung  back  a  cent  'ceptin' 
the  Plymmy-rocks  an'  them  airnin's  in  the 
Great  State  o'  Johnsing's  savings  bank." 

Once  in  a  while  Sadie  Ophine  was  sorry  for 
her  mother.  Good-hearted  young  people  are 
sometimes  touched  to  indulgence  by  the  folly 
of  the  old.  She  walked  inside  so  that  she 
would  not  have  to  meet  her  mother's  faded 
eyes.  "  The  neighbors  has  all  been  a-sendin' 
over  to  see  if  you  was  home,  maw,"  she  said. 
"  'Pears  like  they  has  all  growed  mighty  fond 
of  the  things  you  borried  to  go  with.  The 
Kimmels  wants  a  sight  of  their  wagon,  an' 
the  Rendlemans  'low  hit's  time  to  plough  the 


TALES  201 

cawn,  an'  they  talk  like  they  couldn't  noways 
plough  hit  with  anything  freskier  than  the  ole 
nag  they  loaned  you,  an'  the  Reeses  seems  to 
be  skeered  less'n  you-uns  might  travel  roun'  so 
long  that  you'd  wear  out  their  wagon-kivver ; 
an'  I'll  tell  you  what's  the  matter  of  the  last  one 
of  'em  —  they've  got  the  idee  that  if  their 
plunderment  is  lef  hyar  over-night  the 
sheriff' 11  think  hit  belongs  to  we-uns  an'  '11 
come  an'  levy  on  hit  fur  debt  —  jus'  's  if  the 
sheriff  an'  everybody  else  in  Johnsing  County 
didn't  know  that  all  the  property  we  ever  had 
or  ever  is  goin'  to  have  on  airth  is  fowls." 
Back  in  the  darkness  of  the  cabin  she  shivered 
with  disgust.  "If  angels  has  wings  anything 
like  chickens,"  she  muttered,  "  I'd  a  heap 
ruther  go  whar  the  feathers  'ud  git  singed 
off." 

"Yore  pore  pappy  liked  'em,  Sadie 
Ophine,"  said  Mrs.  Harold. 

"  Eph  Wilkinson's  beginnin'  to  take  a  fancy 
to  'em,  too,"  said  Sadie  Ophine  pointedly. 

Mrs.  Harold  rose  in  quivering  haste. 
"Sadie  Ophine,"  she  whispered,  "you-uns 
don't  think,  does  you,  that  he's  a-goin'  to  try 
to  levy  on  us  fur  the  store  debt?" 

"Yes,  maw,  he  'lows  he's  got  ter  be  paid," 
Sadie  Ophine  answered,  "  an'  I  'lowed  to  him 
that  you-uns  would  bring  plenty  o'  money 
back  with  you  from  Union,  an'  stidder  that  "  — 


202     GREAT   STATE    OF   JOHNSING 

the  girl's  fresh  voice  sharpened.  "Oh!  maw," 
she  cried,  "  hyar  you  come  home  with  nothin' 
in  the  worT  but  little  Andy's  thirteen  cents 
an'  a  pair  o'  hongry  ole  Plymmy-rocks  jus'  ter 
eat  mo'  cawn." 

The  Great  State  of  Johnsing,  who  had  been 
absorbed  in  trying  to  rouse  a  warlike  spirit  in 
the  chicken  hearts  around  him,  now  sauntered 
toward  the  cabin  with  his  thumbs  in  his 
"  galluses  "  and  his  head  on  one  side.  It  was 
a  good-sized  head,  but  the  rest  of  him  was 
exceedingly  "  undergrowed,"  and  did  not  look 
more  than  three  feet  high.  His  trousers  had 
been  cut  very  straight  and  loose,  and,  going 
down  to  his  ankles,  trailed  a  little  behind  his 
heels,  for  they  had  been  made  with  his 
mother's  unfailing  prophecy  that  the  Great 
State  was  on  the  point  of  a  rapid  growth. 
The  Great  State  did  not  know,  however,  that 
rapid  growth  was  desirable,  for  he  felt  already 
grown,  and  since  he  had  become  a  capitalist 
he  fully  realized  that  he  was  the  head  of  the 
house  —  the  only  adviser  and  protector  of 
two  large  but  inexperienced  women  who,  as 
he  had  often  heard  his  mother  declare,  being 
women,  "  didn't  have  no  faculty  noways." 

Neither  Mrs.  Harold  nor  Sadie  Ophine 
noticed  the  small  shadow  of  the  Great  State 
as  he  came  softly  into  the  doorway  and  stood 
listening  to  what  they  said.  His  mother  was 


TALES  203 

undoing  the  little  bundles  of  bedquilts  and 
clothing  which  she  had  brought  back  with 
her,  and  putting  the  articles  where  they 
belonged.  Sadie  was  frying  bacon  for  din 
ner,  but  they  were  deep  in  the  long-post 
poned  and  unsolvable  problem  of  the  debt 
to  Eph  Wilkinson. 

The  eyes  of  the  Great  State  grew  larger 
and  larger  as  he  listened,  and  he  ran  his 
hand  anxiously  into  his  pocket  to  make  sure 
that  he  had  not  lost  his  bank.  Its  sharp 
iron  corners  were  pressing  painfully  against 
his  leg,  but  he  did  not  feel  quite  safe  about 
it  until  he  had  touched  it  with  his  hand. 

"  Tears  like  we-uns  owes  some  money  to 
Eph  Wilkinson,"  he  mused,  "  an'  maw  an' 
Sadie's  skeered  he'll  do  so'thin'  to  us  if  hit 
ain't  paid.  Queer  they  don't  speak  to  me 
bout'n  hit.  Reckon  I'd  better  go  over  an' 
see  what  can  be  did." 

The  Great  State  knew  Eph  Wilkinson 
well.  It  was  a  long  way  to  the  store,  but 
he  had  often  been  there  with  Sadie,  for  his 
mother  would  not  go  with  her,  but  insisted 
that  she  should  not  go  alone.  His  mother 
and  Sadie  seemed  to  have  a  prejudice  against 
Wilkinson,  and  perhaps  that  was  the  reason 
they  could  not  arrange  matters  with  him, 
but  the  Great  State  felt  that  he  knew  him  as 
man  knows  man,  and  set  him  down  in  his 


204    GREAT   STATE    OF   JOHNSING 

heart  as  a  good  fellow.  The  record  was  all 
written  out  in  candy  stains.  The  Great 
State  smacked  his  lips  as  he  slipped  off 
along  the  hot,  dusty  road.  His  mother  had 
given  him  a  bent  pinhook,  with  permission  to 
go  fishing  down  the  branch,  and  fortunately 
the  branch  was  out  of  sight  from  home. 
His  legs  were  certainly  short,  but,  pendulum- 
like,  they  moved  all  the  faster  on  that  account, 
and  so  it  was  not  more  than  an  hour  before 
he  reached  the  store. 

The  store  stood  all  by  itself  and  lonesome 
on  the  country  road,  and  there  were  neither 
customers  nor  loungers  in  sight  when  the 
Great  State  went  in.  "  Howdy,"  he  said, 
putting  his  thumbs  into  his  galluses  and 
looking  up  at  Eph  Wilkinson,  who  was 
lounging  on  the  counter. 

"  Howdy,"  said  Eph  Wilkinson,  putting 
his  thumbs  into  his  galluses  and  looking 
down  at  the  Great  State.  He  had  such  a 
good  face  on  the  whole  that  a  stranger 
would  probably  have  trusted  that  record  in 
the  Great  State's  archives. 

"  Nice  day,"  said  the  Great  State,  taking 
off  the  hat  which  his  mother  had  bought  for 
him  in  Union  and  mopping  his  moist  red 
forehead  with  his  sleeve. 

Eph  Wilkinson  noted  the  new  hat  with 
interest.  "  Well,  little  Andy,"  he  said,  "  you 


TALES  205 

an'  yore  maw  appear  to  have  been  prosperin' 
where  you  have  been." 

"Where  I  been,"  said  little  Andy,  "they 
calls  me  the  Great  State  o'  Johnsing." 

Eph  Wilkinson  began  to  shout  with 
laughter,  and  jumping  off  the  counter 
picked  little  Andy  up  between  his  two  hands. 
"  Great  shakes  !  "  he  cried ;  "  what  do  the 
Great  State  o'  Johnsing  want  o'  me?" 

The  Great  State  struggled  a  little  —  as 
even  great  States  are  sometimes  obliged  to 
—  until  he  was  out  of  the  clutches  of  the 
foreign  power  and  firmly  upon  his  own  feet, 
where  he  could  enter  upon  dignified  negotia 
tions.  "  I  jus'  drapped  in,"  he  said,  "to  see 
what  you  allow  to  do  if  my  maw  don't  pay 
her  debt." 

Wilkinson  stooped  and  laid  a  hand  on  the 
Great  State's  shoulder.  He  noticed  that  the 
little  fellow  was  very  dusty  and  tired-looking 
for  so  great  a  State.  "  Did  you  come  clear 
over  hyar  on  yore  own  account  to  see  bout'n 
that  debt?  "  he  asked. 

The  Great  State  nodded. 

"  Well,  sonny,"  Wilkinson  said  slowly, 
"  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  favor  you,  for  I 
reckon  when  you're  bout'n  three  feet  higher 
there  won't  be  no  more  debts,  but  the  fact  of 
hit  is,  I  was  so  wore  out  waitin'  for  them 
ole  hens  of  your  maw's  to  lay  enough  eggs 


206    GREAT   STATE   OF   JOHNSING 

to  cover  the  debt  that  I  tole  the  sheriff  to  go 
over  thar  this  evenin'  an'  levy  on  the  ole  hens 
theirse'ves.  Hyar,  put  a  stick  o'  candy  in 
yore  mouth,  Andy;  them  ole  hens  didn't  do 
much  for  yore  maw  noway,  'ceptin'  to  eat 
cawn." 

The  Great  State  took  the  candy  and  his 
lips  stopped  quivering.  "  An'  ain't  there 
nothin'  I  can  do  bout'n  hit,"  he  asked,  "  now 
you-uns  has  done  —  levied  ?  " 

Wilkinson  took  another  stick  of  candy 
from  the  jar  and  held  it  out.  "  No,  State  o' 
Johnsing,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  see  that  thar's  a 
blessed  thing  that  you  can  do.  The  sheriff'll 
be  there  bout'n  sundown  to  catch  the  hens, 
an'  to-morrer  he'll  auction  'em  off  to  pay  the 
debt.  He  went  over  an'  served  the  attachment 
on  'em  an'  counted  'em  while  yore  maw  was 
gone.  There  ain't  nothin'  can  be  did,  less'n 
she's  got  some  friend  to  buy  'em  back." 

Wilkinson  went  on  eagerly  explaining  the 
legality  of  the  process  to  the  Great  State,  but 
the  Great  State  did  not  seem  to  comprehend. 
With  a  sticky,  striped  piece  of  candy  in  each 
swinging  hand  he  was  marching  out  of  the 
store.  At  the  door  he  paused  and  turned  a 
sticky,  striped  little  face  to  say,  "  Thanky, 
good  evenin',"  and  he  was  gone. 

Wilkinson  went  to  the  door  and  looked 
after  him.  When  the  long  trousers  and  the 


TALES  207 

galluses  and  the  wisely-poised  head  were  out 
of  sight,  he  bowed  his  own  head  into  his 
hands.  "  Wisht  I  hadn't  posted  the  sale  o' 
them  ole  hens,"  he  groaned,  and  his  voice 
had  something  of  mental  suffering  in  it  be 
yond  the  words  and  more  than  mere  kind- 
heartedness  could  explain. 

As  for  the  Great  State  there  was  not  a 
scrap  of  either  stick  of  candy  left  to  betray 
him  when  he  went  home  to  his  mother,  and 
even  the  stripes  on  his  rueful  face  escaped 
notice,  for  the  sheriff  and  a  posse  had  arrived 
and  were  waiting  for  the  hens  to  settle  enough 
to  be  captured  in  their  various  roosting- 
places.  Mrs.  Harold  sat  in  the  doorway 
crying,  and  the  Great  State  went  up  to  her. 
He  was  weary  to  his  very  thumbs,  but  he 
put  them  manfully  in  his  galluses  to  comfort 
her.  "  Don't  you-uns  worry,  maw,  I'll  fix 
'em,"  he  promised,  and  then  from  sheer  ex 
haustion  he  leaned  over  into  her  lap  and  fell 
asleep.  She  put  her  hand  on  to  his  round, 
nestling  head.  It  was  far  more  of  a  comfort 
than  his  words  had  been,  and  all  through  that 
evening,  after  the  last  protesting  chicken  had 
been  carried  away,  and  after  Sadie  Ophine 
had  grown  weary  of  wondering  what  was 
going  to  happen  next  and  had  gone  away  to 
bed,  Mrs.  Harold  sat  crying  more  and  more 
softly  in  the  darkness,  for  the  mother-love 


that  was  at  the  bottom  of  her  sorrow  rose 
through  it,  giving  her  a  foolish  mother-feeling 
of  protection  in  her  child. 

A  sound  of  footsteps  came  through  the 
night  stillness.  She  lifted  her  head  sharply. 
"  Who's  there?  "  she  asked. 

A  man  walked  up  to  her.  "  Don't  you 
know  me,"  he  asked,  "  after  all  these  years, 
Sadie  Ophine?" 

"  I  disremember  hearin'  yore  speech,"  she 
said  stiffly,  "  an'  Sadie  Ophine's  in  the  house 
sleepin'.  I'm  Mis'  An'erson  HarolV 

He  stood  close  beside  her.  "  Sadie  Oph 
ine,"  he  said,  "  I  ain't  never  called  you  Mis' 
An'erson  Harol'  in  my  heart." 

A  thrill  of  bitterness  came  into  her  voice. 
"  Oh,  yore  heart !  "  she  said  ;  "  an'  how  is  hit 
gettin'  erlong  these-hyar  days?  " 

"You'd  orter  know,"  he  said;  "I  ain't 
never  claimed  hit  back  from  you." 

She  slipped  the  Great  State  gently  down 
until  his  head  rested  on  the  doorstep.  Then 
she  rose.  "  Eph  Wilkinson,"  she  said,  "  if  I 
was  dead  an'  buried  an'  you  tromped  across 
my  grave  I  would  be  lyin'  if  I  said  I  didn't 
know.  I  knowed  you  onct  for  love  an'  I 
knows  you  now  for  hate.  Turn  yore  steps 
back  whar  you  come  from  an'  leave  me  an' 
mine  alone." 

He  did  not  stir.     "  Sadie  Ophine,"  he  said, 


TALES  209 

"  there  was  a  night  onct  in  Owl  Holler  when 
we  promised  each  other  on  the  knees  of  our 
hearts  never  to  speak  a  word  o'  love  to  any 
other  soul  or  let  another  soul  speak  love  to  us. 
I'd  like  you  to  tell  me,  Sadie  Ophine,  which 
one  of  us  has  broke  that  solemn  word." 

She  stretched  out  her  hand.  "  As  God's 
lookin',  Eph  Wilkinson,"  she  said  fiercely, 
"  I  never  broke  my  word  to  you  until  you 
gave  it  back.  What  kind  of  love  do  you  call 
it  to  be  suspicioning  me  because  I  pleased  to 
daince  one  daince  with  An'erson  Harol'  ? 
What  kin'  o'  love  was  hit  that  throwed  my 
promise  in  my  face  an'  tromped  off  down 
the  Holler  jus'  becase  you  seed  An'erson 
a-whisperin'  in  my  ear?  I  ain't  forgot  yit 
the  sound  yore  feet  made  a-rustlin'  through 
the  leaves  an'  settin'  the  loose  stones  to 
rollin'  down  the  slopes.  An'  every  step  you 
took  the  love  I  had  fur  you  turned  black,  an' 
I  reckon  my  heart  broke  then,  'case  thar 
was  more  hate  in  hit  than  hit  could  hold. 
I  never  keered  what  happened  after  that. 
An'erson  he  married  me  becase  he  took  a 
fancy  ter  ;  an'  he  was  a  good  man  ter  me,  —  a 
good,  stiddy  man,  —  but  I  didn't  keer.  Maybe 
you  think  I  keered  for  Sadie  Ophine,  but  I 
didn't,  not  as  I  had  ought.  She  was  allus  too 
much  like  the  poor  fool  girl  I  uster  be.  I 
know  I  never  keered  fur  fowls,  though  I 


210    GREAT   STATE   OF   JOHNSING 

tended  'em  faithful  'case  An'erson  he  was 
so  proud  of  'em,  an'  somehow  I  knowed  that 
I  had  ought  to  do  the  things  he  liked.  But 
I  didn't  keer  fur  An'erson  —  I  cain't  recollec' 
keerin'  fur  anythin'  ontil  little  Andy  come." 
Her  voice  changed.  "  Hit's  queer,"  she  said, 
"  how  I  allus  liked  little  Andy.  He  was 
jus'  like  his  pappy,  but  that  didn't  make  no 
difference  except  that  maybe  I  liked  him 
better  fur  hit,  hit  made  me  so  shore  he  was 
goin'  ter  be  stiddy  an'  kind.  An'  then  some 
how,  after  An'erson  died,  I  got  to  likin'  the 
fowls  too.  The  fowls  an'  little  Andy,  hit 
was  allus  right  mterestm'  ter  see  'em  ter- 
gether,  one  was  bout'n  as  high  as  t'other  an' 
they  was  all  mighty  lively  to  set  an'  watch. 
I  couldn't  never  do  much  fur  'em  noways,  fur 
women  don't  have  no  faculty  lef  after  goin' 
through  such  a  spell  of  not  keerin',  but  I 
liked  'em  mighty  well."  She  laughed  bitterly. 
"  That's  the  way  hit's  been,  Eph  Wilkinson," 
she  said.  "An"  you  can  jedge  if  I  don't 
hate  you  a  good  deal  deeper  than  any  fool  of 
a  girl  ever  had  the  heart  to  love.  You've 
took  the  fowls,  an'  I  don't  know  what  you're 
here  fur  now  onless  you're  studyin'  how  ter 
git  little  Andy  too." 

Wilkinson  did  not  answer  at  once.  A  whip- 
poor-will  bridged  over  the  silence,  calling 
loudly  and  persistently,  as  if  determined  to 


TALES  211 

assert  its  verdict  over  any  case  which  human 
souls  might  have  to  try.  On  the  doorstep 
little  Andy  turned  and  murmured  as  weary 
children  will,  and  once  he  spoke  out  quite 
distinctly,  saying,  "  Thirteen  cents  !  "  Be 
hind  the  cabin  the  moon  was  rising,  and  its 
light  stole  up  softly  in  the  east. 

"  Sadie  Ophine,"  Wilkinson  said  at  last, 
"  that  poor  fool  that  throwed  yore  promise 
back  to  you  growed  up  to  be  a  man  the 
night  that  you  an'  An'erson  was  married.  I 
allowed  you  keered  for  him,  but  I  knowed 
that  I  had  brung  hit  on  myse'f,  an'  so  I 
growed  to  be  a  man.  I  didn't  forgive  you,  I 
cain't  say  that  I  ever  forgive  you,  ontil  this 
very  night,  when  they  brung  them  squawkin' 
fowls  o'  yourn  up  to  the  store,  each  one 
a-hollerin'  as  if  hits  throat  would  break.  I'd 
been  thinkin'  all  day  bout'n  you-uns  an'  the 
children,  specially  little  Andy,  an'  somehow, 
when  the  fowls  come,  the  distress  of  'em  kep' 
a-raspin'  against  the  old  grudge  I  was  a- 
holdin'  ontil  all  to  onct  the  grudge  wa'n't  thar, 
an'  I  found  myse'f  trompin'  over  hyar  as  if  the 
haints  was  follerin'  me.  An'  they  was,  Sadie 
Ophine ;  them  old  days  in  Owl  Holler  was 
every  one  of  'em  a  haint  that  tracked  after 
me  an'  kep'  a-whisperin'  things  to  me  in  the 
dark."  He  went  close  to  her  and  laid  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder.  She  did  not  move 


212     GREAT   STATE   OF   JOHNSING 

away.  "  Cain't  you  forgive  me,"  he  begged, 
"  an'  let  me  make  up  to  you  fur  all  these 
years?  My  heart  has  a  heap  more  love  fur 
you  than  hit  had  in  Owl  Holler,  becase  hit's 
grovved ;  hit's  a  man's  heart  now,  stiddy  an' 
true,  true  an'  ready  to  trust  you  to  the  very 
gate  o'  death." 

The  woman  stood  silent,  quivering  under 
his  touch.  The  first  moonbeam  crossed  the 
cabin  roof  and  reached  her  face.  Wilkinson's 
hand  fell  from  her  thin  shoulder.  "  My 
God,"  he  said,  "  how  the  years  has  wore  you 
out!" 

She  looked  up  into  the  light.  "Yes,  look 
at  me,"  she  said.  "  You  done  a  pretty  piece 
o'  work,  ain't  you  !  Now  jus'  make  a  finish 
of  hit.  Thar's  little  Andy  layin'  thar  on  the 
doorstep,  an'  if  you  climb  up  in  the  trees  an' 
feel  along  the  limbs  you'll  maybe  find  a 
Banty  er  a  little  scrub  pullet  that  the  sheriff 
an'  his  drove  o'  men  has  missed.  They 
looked  pretty  faithful  an'  they  kep'  their  little 
tally  in  a  book,  but  they've  maybe  missed 
seein'  one,  so  you'd  better  climb  up,  Eph, 
an'  sarch." 

He  tried  to  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder 
again,  but  she  pushed  it  away.  "  On  the 
knees  o'  my  heart,  Sadie  Ophine,"  he  whis 
pered,  "  I  love  you  more  than  I  ever,  knowed 
a  man  could  love,  an'  I  swear  to  you  that  I 


TALES  213 

never  knowed  how  you  been  a-workin'  an' 
a-sufferin'  an'  a-growin'  old." 

She  flashed  a  wild  look  at  him  out  of  eyes 
no  longer  dim.  "  Climb  up  for  yore  Banties, 
Eph !  "  she  cried.  "  I  ain't  so  old  yit  but 
what  hit  'ud  do  me  proud  to  see  you  takin' 
the  fowls  from  off  my  trees  with  one  hand 
an'  makin'  love  to  me  with  t'other.  Thar 
may  be  a  few  Banties  on  the  fur  branches, 
so  roust  yourse'f  an'  climb." 

Turning  from  him,  she  stooped  to  gather 
the  Great  State  in  her  arms,  but  Wilkinson 
pulled  her  back.  "  Don't  you  know  them 
fowls  is  yours  again,"  he  asked,  "  whether 
you  want  me  or  not?" 

She  let  the  Great  State  settle  down  again 
upon  the  step.  "  Eph  Wilkinson,"  she  said, 
straightening  herself  to  face  him,  "  does  you- 
uns  think  the  girl  you  knowed  could  ever 
grow  so  old  an'  pore  as  to  be  a-takin'  gifts 
from  you  ?  " 

The  Great  State  had  half  wakened  and  the 
burden  on  his  mind  found  speech  again. 
"  I'll  buy  'em  back  fur  you,  maw,"  he  mur 
mured  ;  "  I  worked  mighty  hard  to  git  hit, 
but  I  got  thirteen  cents." 

Wilkinson  knelt  eagerly  beside  the  boy. 
"  State  o'  Johnsing,"  he  said,  "  wake  up  ! 
Does  you  want  to  buy  them  fowls  back  for 
yore  maw?  " 


214    GREAT   STATE   OF   JOHNSING 

The  Great  State  raised  his  head  slowly, 
blinking  about  him  in  the  shadow  of  the 
cabin.  "Toby  shore  I  does,"  he  said;  "I 
kin  pay  you  thirteen  cents." 

"Then  they'se  yourn  !  "  cried  Wilkinson. 
He  rose  and  faced  the  woman  who  stood 
trembling  in  the  whiteness  of  the  moon. 
"  Now  that  they'se  gone  from  betwixt  us, 
Sadie  Ophine,"  he  pleaded,  "  cain't  you  take 
me  back?" 

Her  hands  went  up  to  her  face.  "  Oh, 
Eph,"  she  sobbed,  "  I've  growed  too  draggled 
out  an'  old  !  " 

"  Has  you  looked  at  me,  Sadie  Ophine?" 

She  lifted  her  face  and  looked  at  him. 
Even  in  the  moonlight  he  was  wrinkled,  gray, 
and  old.  The  tears  ran  down  her  hollow 
cheeks.  "  May  the  Lord-a'mighty  forgive 
me,"  she  whispered,  and  he  took  her  in  his 
arms. 

But  the  Great  State  of  Johnsing  had 
wriggled  his  iron  bank  out  of  his  pocket. 
"  Leave  my  maw  alone,  the  money's  in  thar," 
he  said,  thrusting  it  into  Wilkinson's  hand. 
"  I  aimed  hit  over  in  Union  pullin'  strawber 
ries,  and  if  hit  don't  quite  make  things  square 
I  reckon  I  kin  pay  the  balance  by  nex'  year. 
You  has  to  shake  the  pennies  out." 

They  came  slowly,  but  they  came,  and 
Wilkinson  gave  him  back  the  bank. 


AUNT   CLEMENTINE'S    OLD   DAYS 

IT  was  evening,  and  the  family  had  just 
finished  prayers.  There  was  no  one  left 
of  the  family  in  these  years  except  the  Squire 
kneeling  by  the  big  Bible  and  Aunt  Clemen 
tine  bowing  her  turbaned  head  over  a  chair 
near  the  shadowy  doorway.  The  lamp  on 
the  table  beside  the  Squire  was  flaring  a  little, 
and  as  Aunt  Clementine  scrambled  to  her 
feet  she  saw  it,  and  trotted  across  to  turn  it 
down. 

"  When  I  gits  ole,"  she  said  abruptly, 
while  the  Squire  was  rising,  "  I  wants  you  to 
come  in  sometimes  to  little  Clementine's, 
where  I'll  be  sittin'  in  de  chimbley  corner ;  an' 
I  wants  you,  please,  sir,  to  kneel  right  down 
an'  pray  me  dat  same  prayer.  Dere  isn't  no 
minister,  white  or  cullud,  dat  can  pray  any 
such  a  prayer  as  dat.  I'se  had  it  on  my  min' 
to  ax  you  evah  since  I  first  corned  hyar  an' 
you  prayed  it,  jes'  like  you  prayed  it  evah 
since." 

The  Squire  took  his  glasses  off  and  pol 
ished  them.  When  they  were  finished  he 
rubbed  his  handkerchief  across  the  high 


2I6AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

dome  of  his  head.  It  had  never  occurred  to 
him  before  that  he  prayed  in  just  the  same 
words  every  night.  "  Why,  certainly,  Aunt 
Clementine,  certainly,"  he  assented  in  a 
puzzled  tone.  It  was  passing  through  his 
mind  that  he  might  just  as  well  read  a  prayer 
from  a  book,  and  that  was  a  custom  which  he 
had  been  brought  up  to  abhor.  Then  his 
eyes  cleared.  The  great  changelessness  of 
our  human  needs  rose  before  him,  justifying 
the  grand  and  changeless  phraseology  of  his 
appeal.  He  did  not  go  far  enough  to  ques 
tion  if  it  justified  the  book  as  well;  he  was 
telling  himself:  "  It  is  not  repetition,  it  is  in 
spiration,  always  the  same  inspiration,  —  if  I 
did  not  feel  it  I  should  be  given  other  words." 
He  reached  behind  him,  tucking  his  handker 
chief  into  the  pocket  of  his  long-tailed  coat, 
and  smiling  benignantly  at  Aunt  Clementine. 
"  So  you  expect  to  live  with  that  niece  who 
has  just  come  North,  do  you,  when  you  are 
—  er  —  unable  to  work  any  longer  ?  "  he  said. 
He  could  not  have  brought  himself  to  say, 
"  when  you  are  old,"  for  Aunt  Clementine 
was  already  unmistakably  old,  although  her 
vigor  promised  to  last  a  long  time,  he  hoped. 
The  Squire  depended  on  Aunt  Clementine, 
and  had  gradually  accustomed  himself  to  all 
her  ways  until  they  seemed  the  only  ways  in 
which  a  household  could  find  comfort.  He 


TALES  217 

tried  not  to  show  how  much  it  troubled  him 
to  look  forward  to  the  time  of  her  outworn 
strength,  and  he  would  gladly  have  arranged 
to  have  her  cared  for  in  the  house,  but  Aunt 
Clementine  had  other  cherished  plans. 

She  stood  across  from  him  with  her  gnarled 
hands  resting  on  the  table  and  a  look  of 
unusual  softness  wrinkling  the  parchment  of 
her  face.  Even  the  crusty  indrawing  of  her 
chin  was  gone.  The  Squire  had  known  her 
a  good  many  years,  but  it  was  new  to  him  to 
see  her  bespeaking  prayers  for  herself  instead 
of  admonishing  others. 

"Yes,  sir,  thank  you,  sir,"  she  answered, 
bobbing  him  a  curtesy  which  stopped  half 
way  to  grace  because  a  rheumatic  joint 
debarred  it;  "yes,  sir,  I've  allus  calculated 
on  spendin'  my  las'  days  with  little  Clemen 
tine.  You  see,  de  way  I  allus  studied  it  out, 
bringing  up  chillun  is  jes'  like  keepin'  an 
insurance  policy  —  dey  pays  you  back  in  de 
end ;  an'  so  when  I  los'  all  of  my  own  I  was 
powahful  glad  to  have  my  sister  give  me  one 
o'  hern.  She  was  allus  such  a  great,  fine, 
vig'rous  child  dat  it  was  a  rale  enjoyment  to 
try  to  git  enough  for  her  to  eat  an'  to  watch 
her  bustin'  through  her  clo'es,  an'  whenever 
she  settled  down  kin'  o'  weighty  on  my  min' 
or  my  strength  I  jes'  tole  myse'f,  '  Doan'  you 
shirk  out'n  you'  bes'  endeavors  for  dat  chile, 


2i 8  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

an'  when  you're  old  it'll  be  tuhn  about  an' 
she'll  be  wukkin'  for  you.'  "  The  old  woman's 
eyes  wandered  past  the  Squire,  and  her  Arab 
face  softened  into  still  more  unwonted  gen 
tleness.  "  You  ain't  seed  my  little  Clemen 
tine  yit,"  she  said;  "  such  a  great,  stroppin', 
fine  woman  as  she  has  growed  to  be.  An' 
she  allus  says  the  same  thing  as  I  does. 
'  Tuhn  about  is  fair  play,  aunty,'  she  says. 
'  You've  wukked  for  me,  an'  when  you'se  ole 
I'se  sho'ly  goin'  to  wuk  for  you.'  You  ain't 
nevah  lived  in  de  Souf,  Squire,  an'  you  doan' 
know  how  ole  niggers  takes  deir  ease.  An' 
I'll  do  de  same  when  I  gits  ole.  I'll  jes'  live 
with  little  Clementine  an'  sit  by  her  chimbley, 
with  nufifin'  in  de  worl'  to  do  but  move  de 
ihons  back  an'  fo'th  to  keep  'em  hot  so'st 
little  Clementine  won't  lose  no  time,  an' 
between  movin'  'em  I'se  jes'  as  likely  as  not 
to  doze  off  in  de  chair  —  my,  my,  but  some 
times  when  I  gits  tired  I  gits  to  studyin'  about 
it,  an'  I  straitches  out  my  feet,  an'  I  can  jes' 
feel  de  crinklin'  of  de  heat  about  my  knees ! 
I  tell  you,  Squire,  I'se  plumb  glad  I  had  de 
sense  to  put  my  earnin's  into  a  chile,  'stid  of 
any  sort  of  insurance  dat  doan'  begin  to  pay 
you  back  till  aftah  you  is  daid." 

The  Squire's  eyes  wandered  about  the  room 
seeking  all  the  faces  which  death  and  life  had 
taken  from  him.  "  You  are  right,  Aunt  Clem- 


TALES  219 

entine,"  he  said  wistfully;  "the  best  of  all 
insurance  is  some  younger  person's  love. 
Good  night,"  he  added,  lifting  the  lamp  as  a 
signal ;  and  the  old  woman  said  good  night. 

The  next  morning  when  he  came  down  to 
breakfast  the  Squire  found  Aunt  Clementine 
wearing  a  white  handkerchief  tied  beneath  her 
turban  and  around  her  forehead.  He  knew 
that  handkerchief  well.  Sometimes  it  meant 
that  its  wearer  had  head-ache,  and  sometimes 
it  was  a  badge  declaring  increased  rheumatic 
trouble  or  general  misery,  but  it  always  sig 
nified  that  Aunt  Clementine  was  approach 
able  and  open  to  kindly  offices.  "  Head-ache, 
Aunt  Clementine?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Aunt  Clementine,  and  as 
she  turned  toward  him  he  saw  that  her  eyes 
had  a  glaze  of  pain.  "  I'se  got  head-ache  an' 
bones-ache  an'  feet-ache,  an'  a  sort  er  triflin' 
feelin'  'bout  de  chest.  I  seems  to  be  a- 
peterin'  out  all  roun'."  The  corners  of  her 
mouth  sank,  as  if  her  world  felt  heavy  on  her 
shoulders.  "  De  batter-cakes  feels  it,"  she 
added  hopelessly ;  "  dey  isn't  noways  up  to 
de  mahk,  but  you  mus'  escuse  'em,  please, 
sir,  dis  mawnin',  Squire." 

"You're  mistaken  about  them  —  they're 
fine,"  said  the  Squire,  eyeing  them  cordially; 
"  don't  you  suppose  I  know  the  color  of  a 
good  cake?  But  I'll  tell  you  what's  the 


220  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

trouble  with  you,  Aunt  Clementine :  you're 
feeling  the  hot  weather;  and  I'm  going  to 
hire  the  washing  done  out  of  the  house  for  a 
while  and  let  you  pick  up  strength." 

Aunt  Clementine  set  down  the  plate  of 
batter-cakes  with  a  sharp  motion.  "  Does 
you  think  I'se  gittin'  too  ole?  "  she  demanded, 
with  a  tremor  in  her  voice.  Her  cramped 
fingers  locked  themselves  together  before  her, 
and  she  stared  down  at  the  Squire  with  a 
fierce  beseeching  in  her  eyes.  "  I  grumbles 
an'  scolds  an'  goes  a-pokin'  'bout  my  wuk 
jes'  like  I'se  sick  sometimes,"  she  went  on 
eagerly,  "jes'  because  I'se  a  ole  fool  dat  was 
made  too  much  of  an'  spiled  in  de  raisin'  — 
nevah  had  to  nose  right  into  de  pan  with  de 
oddah  little  pickaninnies,  like  a  little  drove 
o'  shoats  —  no,  sir ;  dey  thought  I  was  smaht, 
an'  dey  made  of  me,  an'  I  got  uster  bein' 
muched  an'  noticed,  so  dat  I  keeps  a-wantin' 
it  now  dat  I  is  growed.  But  I  ain't  ole  yit, 
Squire,  an',  what's  mo',  I  ain't  de  sort  to  hang 
triflin'  roun'  in  nobody's  kitchen  aftah  my 
wukkin'  days  is  past.  No,  sir;  I'se  jes' goin' 
to  lay  by  an'  take  my  ease  like  yaller  corn 
dat's  cut  an'  stacked  in  de  field  'fore  it's  hauled 
away  an'  shucked  an'  measured  out  for  jedg- 
ment," -  —  her  voice  quivered  again,  —  "but, 
Squire,  I'se  strong  yit;  de  time  for  layin'  by 
ain't  come." 


TALES  221 

"  Of  course  it  hasn't,"  said  the  Squire,  but 
tering  his  batter-cake  restively,  "  but  that's 
no  reason  why  you  should  overwork  before 
hand,  when  the  weather's  hot  and  the  neigh 
bors'  children  out  of  school  and  running  in 
and  out  making  you  trouble  all  the  time. 
Do  you  know  of  anybody  you  could  get  who 
would  do  the  washing  something  like  as  well 
as  you  do?  " 

The  Squire  prided  himself  as  being  a  man 
whose  every  word  was  upon  honor,  and  he 
also  prided  himself  upon  being  able  to  man 
age  Aunt  Clementine,  although  no  one  out 
side  of  the  house  could  ever  have  understood 
how  he  reconciled  these  two  prides  or  what 
became  of  his  conscience — his  dutiful,  un 
swerving  conscience  —  when  he  compli 
mented  the  old  woman  so  broadly.  For  to 
the  eyes  of  the  world  her  work  would  have 
shown  undoubtable  evidence  of  failing  skil- 
fulness  and  failing  sight.  But  outsiders  had 
not  frequented  the  house  in  the  ten  years 
since  Aunt  Clementine  had  entered  it,  and 
they  could  not  be  expected  to  know  how  the 
Squire  had  found  out  and  adjusted  his  mind 
to  the  necessary  conditions  of  peace  so  grad 
ually  that  he  was  never  conscious  of  having 
become  an  arch  flatterer  and  perverter  of  the 
truth. 

Aunt    Clementine    chuckled    softly  some- 


222  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

where  within  herself  and  forgot  the  sore 
question  of  age.  "  Little  Clementine,  she's 
a  heap  better  washer  an'  ihoner  dan  I  is," 
she  answered  graciously,  "  an'  she'll  be 
mighty  proud  to  git  de  wuk." 

"  Capital !  "  said  the  Squire.  "  I  wonder  I 
didn't  think  of  it  myself.  Tell  me  just  where 
she  lives,  and  I'll  take  the  buggy  and  drive 
right  over  to  her  with  the  laundry-bag  now." 

"  No  use  puttin'  you'se'f  out,"  said  the  old 
woman.  "  I'se  goin'  ovah  dere  dis  evenin' 
anyhow.  De  bag  ain't  much  size,  an'  I 
wants  to  tell  her  jes'  how  you  wants  you' 
shirt-fronts  starched." 

"  Better  tell  her  about  it  and  have  her  call 
round  for  the  bag,  then,"  the  Squire  advised ; 
and  he  left  the  table  with  the  genial  feeling 
of  having  put  his  household  into  ways  of 
ease. 

And  it  seemed  at  first  as  if  he  had,  for 
Aunt  Clementine  went  about  her  work  sing 
ing  like  a  bird,  —  some  very  strange  bird,  — 
and  toward  evening  the  signal  of  distress  was 
missing  from  her  forehead  and  the  gray  dis 
coloration  which  with  a  negro  answers  for 
pallor  had  left  her  face.  But  considerably 
later,  when  she  came  back  from  her  visit  to 
little  Clementine,  she  looked  worn  again,  and 
the  Squire  reproached  himself  for  not  hav 
ing  insisted  on  delivering  the  laundry-bag  in 


TALES  223 

person.  "  There  seems  to  be  no  way  of 
helping  a  woman,"  he  mused  discontentedly 
as  he  watched  her  hobbling  off  to  her  room. 
"  I've  noticed  it  again  and  again  through  my 
life  that  a  woman  will  always  find  some  way 
of  turning  your  help  into  an  added  burden. 
I  wonder  why  it  is." 

Aunt  Clementine  could  have  told  him  that 
she  was  acquainted  with  a  woman  who  knew 
how  to  take  assistance,  but  he  did  not  speak 
to  her  about  it,  and  as  the  long  weeks  of 
summer  filed  slowly  out  from  the  realms  of 
heat,  bringing  neither  youth  nor  health  to 
her,  in  spite  of  her  lessened  cares,  he  began 
to  wonder  if  it  might  be  that  she  was  a  great 
deal  older  than  she  had  ever  given  him  to 
understand.  Sometimes  he  tried  to  keep 
his  mind  from  being  so  occupied  with  the 
thought  of  Aunt  Clementine  and  her  suffer 
ings,  telling  himself  that  if  she  did  not 
minister  to  his  material  comfort  he  would 
probably  be  thinking  less  about  her,  but  at 
other  times  he  realized  with  a  sense  of  desola 
tion  that  he  was  growing  almost  as  old  as 
she,  and  that  if  she  were  to  die  his  daily  life 
would  become  altogether  strange. 

One  afternoon,  reflecting  on  all  these 
things,  he  was  driving  back  from  a  day's 
absence  outside  the  village.  His  road  lay 
through  a  little  negro  settlement  which  he 


224  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

had  not  been  near  for  years,  and  he  looked 
about  him  with  humanitarian  interest  in  its 
progress  since  the  first  freedmen  had  built 
their  cabins  in  this  most  southerly  shadow  of 
the  great  wing  of  the  North.  The  only  per 
son  whom  he  saw  drew  him  back  from 
general  to  individual  speculation.  It  was 
Aunt  Clementine  standing  outside  a  hovel, 
and  washing  with  a  furious  energy  which 
made  the  friction  of  the  clothes  across  the 
board  into  a  sort  of  tune.  He  drove  straight 
toward  her.  The  sound  of  the  wheels  did 
not  seem  to  reach  her  ears,  but  as  he  drew 
near  she  turned,  without  looking  up,  and 
went  into  the  house.  The  form  of  some  one 
sitting  by  the  doorway  disappeared,  and  as 
she  came  out  again  she  glanced  his  way  and 
he  spoke  to  her. 

"  Aunt  Clementine,"  he  said  sternly,  "  what 
does  this  mean?  " 

"  Dis  is  little  Clementine's  house,"  the  old 
woman  explained,  coming  out  into  the  road. 
As  she  stood  beside  him  he  could  see  through 
a  veneer  of  pride  and  defiance  into  a  broken 
look  which  was  new  to  her  face.  His  heart 
sank  while  it  relented.  He  felt  that  she  was 
hiding  some  trouble  from  him,  and  he  waited 
for  the  clue.  "  I  was  feelin'  so  smaht,"  she 
went  on,  gathering  assurance  from  his 
changed  expression,  "  dat  I  corned  ovah 


TALES  225 

hyah  right  soon  dis  evenin',  an'  I  foun'  dat 
it  was  tuhn  about  sho'  'nough,  an'  po'  little 
Clementine  was  a-feelin'  too  po'ly  to  wuk. 
Feelin'  smaht  like  I  did,  I  couldn't  sit  by  an' 
see  her  give  ovah  you'  washin'  to  somebody 
that  would  have  spiled  you'  shirts  an' 
starched  'em  stiff  as  pasteboa'd,  so  I  jes' 
tuhned  about  an'  did  it  myse'f,  an'  I  doan' 
feel  no  wuss  for  it.  I  reckon  I'se  picked  up 
a  right  smaht  of  strength." 

The  Squire  shook  his  head.  "You've  not 
been  doing  right,  Aunt  Clementine,"  he 
answered.  "  Do  you  think  this  is  acting  fair 
to  me  when  I'm  trying  to  make  you  strong 
and  well  again?  " 

"  I'se  done  the  best  I  knowed,"  said  Aunt 
Clementine,  her  face  taking  on  a  dogged  look 
which,  together  with  its  lines  of  sorrow  and 
of  weariness,  made  it  look  as  old  and  uncon 
querable  as  toil  itself.  Through  what  seemed 
a  long  and  hopeless  space  of  time  she  met 
and  resisted  the  kind  solicitude  of  his  gaze, 
and  then  her  defiance  fell  before  it  piteously. 
"  You've  had  chillun,  Squire,"  she  said,  with 
a  catch  in  her  voice,  "  an'  mebbe  you  knows 
how  it  is  to  feel  '  De  chile  is  my  chile/  an' 
not  to  git  fur  'nough  beyond  it  to  see  de 
oddah  people  in  de  worl'.  I  was  studyin' 
mo'  about  de  money  for  little  Clementine 
dan  about  you'  shirts,  an'  I  reckon"  — 


226  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

"  Get  in  here  and  ride  back  home  at  once," 
the  Squire  interrupted  brusquely,  "  and  let 
the  shirts"  —  he  would  have  liked  to  say  "  go 
hang,"  but,  realizing  that  it  would  sound 
unseemly,  and  that  in  any  case  they  could 
not  do  it  without  the  help  of  Aunt  Clemen 
tine,  he  substituted,  "  take  care  of  them 
selves." 

The  system  of  "  turn  about "  seemed  to 
have  some  kind  of  a  hitch  in  its  working,  for 
Aunt  Clementine  was  undoubtedly  very 
"  po'ly  "  after  that  day,  and  yet  she  insisted 
that  her  niece  was  far  too  ill  to  be  sent  for  to 
help  her,  or,  later  on,  to  take  care  of  her  when 
she  had  taken  to  her  bed.  The  Squire 
wandered  about  the  house  disconsolately, 
going  up  again  and  again  to  ask  her  how 
she  was,  and  avoiding  the  kitchen,  where  he 
had  installed  a  young  and  sprightly-motioned 
black  girl,  whose  swiftness  enabled  her  to 
make  more  mistakes  in  a  single  day  than  the 
Squire  had  ever  dreamed  of.  Sometimes  he 
had  a  glimpse  of  a  colored  man  slinking  out 
of  the  house,  and  this  he  learned  to  be  little 
Clementine's  husband  come  to  exchange 
reports  as  to  the  condition  of  the  two 
invalids.  The  new  girl  in  the  kitchen  told 
him  so  with  a  giggle,  and  when  he  asked  her 
how  little  Clementine  was  getting  on  she 
giggled  again  and  said  that  she  thought  that 


TALES  227 

little  Clementine  was  pretty  low  —  "  actin'  so, 
leastways,"  she  added. 

For  a  long  time  that  night  the  Squire 
could  not  sleep.  A  suspicion  of  his  own 
was  confirmed  by  the  new  girl's  opinion,  and 
the  picture  of  Aunt  Clementine  sitting  by 
her  niece's  fireside,  floated  in  many  and  hope 
less  variations  before  his  mind.  There  could 
be  no  question  now  but  that  Aunt  Clemen 
tine  was  approaching  the  "  laying-off  time," 
but  little  Clementine  did  not  seem  to  be 
preparing  any  warm  nook  for  her  by  the 
chimney-side. 

"An  ungrateful  and  idle  generation,"  he 
muttered,  staring  into  the  darkness  with  the 
wide-eyed,  impatient  wakefulness  of  a  child. 
He  turned  again  wearily.  "  There  must  be 
some  way  to  get  asleep,"  he  thought. 
"  Mother  used  to  tell  me  to  count  sheep 
jumping  over  a  fence,  but  I  like  a  stone  wall 
best.  One,  two,  three,  four,  five" —  He 
held  his  face  toward  the  rugged,  moss- 
chinked  wall  which  he  had  summoned  before 
him,  and  smiled  as  he  noticed  how  each 
sheep's  tail  and  hind  feet  twinkled  in  the 
sun. 

In  primitive  neighborhoods  there  is  a 
summons  which  always  sounds  mournful  or 
portentous  when  it  comes  through  the  dark 
ness,  and  the  last  of  the  Squire's  sheep  was 


228  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

just  losing  itself  in  a  pasture-land  of  dreams 
when  he  started  up  in  alarm.  Some  one  at 
his  front  gate  was  shouting  "  Hello-o-o  !  "  in 
a  loud,  quavering  voice. 

Now  the  Squire,  in  days  when  the  country 
was  wilder,  had  often  been  called  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  to  dispense  off-hand 
justice  to  disturbers  of  the  peace,  but  in 
these  later  times,  when  he  and  the  region 
about  him  had  been  growing  more  grave  and 
dignified,  it  was  an  unheard-of  matter  to  be 
roused  like  this,  and  it  must  mean  personal 
ill  tidings  or  else  some  public  mishap  of 
great  importance.  All  this  passed  through 
his  mind  with  the  one  step  between  the  bed 
and  the  window;  but,  while  he  was  fumbling 
with  a  rebellious  window-bolt,  another  voice, 
full  and  rich  and  reverberant,  added  itself  to 
the  distressful  calling  out-of-doors. 

"Squiah  Poole  !  Squiah  Poole  !  "  it  swelled 
up  through  the  black  shadows  of  the  yard 
where  the  starlight  did  not  penetrate,  and 
something  in  its  musical  whole-heartedness 
relieved  the  tension  which  the  Squire  had  felt 
to  be  absurd,  although  he  could  not  free  it 
from  about  his  thoughts.  The  bolt  yielded, 
and  he  threw  open  the  window  and  looked 
out. 

"Who's  there  and  what's  the  matter?  "  he 
asked. 


TALES  229 

"It's  jes'  me  —  Isaiah  Oldfield,"  answered 
the  voice  of  excitement,  dropping  to  a  more 
conversational  pitch;  "jes'  me  an'  my  wife 
come  roun'  to  ax  you  to  light  you'  lamp  as 
quick  as  you  can  an'  write  us  out  some  little 
papahs  of  divo'cement.  Me  an'  her  is  boun' 
to  quit,  an'  we  wants  de  papahs  for  it  jes'  as 
quick  as  you  can  write." 

"  See  here,"  said  the  Squire,  "  I  can't  write 
you  any  such  papers,  and  it's  nothing  to  wake 
a  man  up  at  night  for  in  any  case." 

"  Dat's  jes'  what  I  done  tole  him,"  said  the 
richer  voice.  "  I  done  says  to  him,  '  'Zaiah,' 
says  I,  '  de  ole  Squiah  ain't  got  nobody  to 
quar'l  with  like  we-all  has,  an'  he'll  jes'  about 
be  takin'  his  soun'es'  sleep.'  I  says  to  him, 
'  He's  a  right  ole  man,  de  ole  Squiah  is, 
an'  he'd  a  heap  ruther  be  rousted  up  by 
daylight  an'  tend  to  his  divo'cements  in  de 
mawnin'.' " 

A  chill  night  breeze  was  blowing  through 
the  Squire's  scant  garments,  and  the  floor 
near  the  window  was  cold.  He  was  uncom 
fortable  enough  to  resent  consideration  on 
account  of  age.  "  I  wish  you  to  under 
stand,"  he  said,  "that  night  or  morning  is 
not  the  question.  A  justice  of  the  peace 
does  not  have  the  power  of  granting  divorces. 
All  that  you  can  do,  whichever  of  you  is 
dissatisfied,  is  to  wait  and  get  a  lawyer,  and 


230  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

bring  your  case  before  the  next  session  of 
the  court." 

The  Squire  had  begun  to  pull  down  the 
window,  but  the  man's  voice  stopped  him. 
"  Wait  a  minute,"  it  besought ;  "  do,  please, 
sah,  wait  a  minute,  Squiah,  an'  study  dat 
'cision  of  you'n  ovah  agin  !  Sho'ly,  sho'ly 
you  ain't  a-goin'  to  sen'  me  back  to  wuk  an' 
wuk  faw  dat  big  idolatrous  woman  dat  is  so 
powahful  idolatrous  she  axes  me  to  he'p  her 
if  she  wants  to  shoo  a  fly  !  It's  a  mighty  long 
time  till  court  sets,  faw  I  done  axed  about  it, 
an'  long  befo'  den  I  wants  to  git  a  woman 
what'll  cook  my  suppahs  faw  me  an'  my 
dinnahs  an'  my  breakfas',  an'  I  tell  you, 
Squiah,  I  done  got  one  all  selected  dat'll  do 
it,  too.  You  knows  her.  She's  jes'  as  black 
as  dese  shadders,  an'  when  you  onct  see  her 
wuk  you  believe  it  to  be  de  jumpin'  of  a 
flea.  I  tell  you,  Squiah  "  — 

"  Don't  you  tell  me  anything  of  the  sort !  " 
cried  the  old  son  of  the  Puritans,  bringing  his 
fist  down  upon  the  window-ledge.  "  Take 
shame  to  yourself,  Isaiah  Oldfield,  whoever 
you  are,  to  be  harboring  such  admiration  for 
any  other  woman  than  your  lawful  wife  !  And 
you  dare  not  only  to  think  such  thoughts,  but 
to  speak  them  aloud  for  the  world  to  hear, 
and  in  the  presence  of  the  woman  you  have 
promised  to  love  and  to  cherish  "  —  The 


TALES  231 

Squire  halted,  awkwardly  uncertain  if  he  was 
speaking  the  exact  truth,  or  if  there  might 
be  some  other  formula  for  marriage  vows 
among  these  negro  waifs  who  kept  drifting 
across  the  border  from  the  South.  The  let 
ter  of  the  truth  never  stood  between  the 
Squire  and  its  spirit,  yet  he  was  happiest 
when  the  spirit  was  embodied  in  the  letter. 
A  gurgling,  care-free  laugh  from  the  injured 
wife  rilled  in  the  gap. 

"  Doan'  you  worry  you'  old  haid  tryin'  to 
make  him  see  shame,  Squiah,"  she  coun 
selled;  "it  ain't  no  sorter  use,  an'  I  done 
give  it  up  long  time  ago.  He  doan'  mean 
no  harm,  Squiah,  noways,  on'y  he  ain't  got 
no  eddication  or  fambly ;  I  doan'  see  how 
I  evah  fawgot  myse'f  so  fur's  to  take  up  with 
him  in  de  fust  place,  an'  I  tell  you  what, 
Squiah,  you  needn't  be  backward  on  my 
account,  faw  I'll  jes'  weah  you'  image  in  my 
heaht  if  you'll  on'y  light  up  you'  lamp  an' 
write  out  dem  little  papahs." 

The  Squire  gave  a  sound  of  disgust  that 
was  almost  a  groan.  The  sense  of  humor 
which  would  have  solaced  him  by  daylight 
seemed  to  pertain  in  some  degree  to  his 
clothing  of  the  day,  and  his  mind  felt  bare 
and  irritable  without  it.  "  Go  away,"  he 
cried  out;  "  I  tell  you  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  your  little  papers  of  divorcement !  " 


232  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

"I  call  it  a  mighty  po',  no-'count  Squiah," 
the  man  broke  out,  "  what  can't  prepare 
some  simple  little  papahs  when  a  gentle 
man  and  his  wife  has  quarrelled  an'  de  two 
applications  is  of  de  same  min' !  "  The 
Squire  let  his  window  run  down  with  a  bang, 
but  as  he  remained  beside  it  he  could  hear 
Isaiah  Oldfield's  disapproval  lift  itself  from 
scorn  to  vituperation  and  rush  along  its  way, 
leaving  a  sparkling  trail  of  adjectives  be 
hind. 

A  window  above  the  Squire's  flew  up,  and 
Aunt  Clementine  spoke  from  it  in  accents 
like  edged  weapons,  so  strong  and  clear  and 
sharp  that  the  Squire  marvelled,  having 
thought  her  very  ill  that  night.  "  Isaiah 
Oldneld  !  "  was  all  she  said. 

Isaiah's  voice  fell  into  a  sort  of  brisk  meek 
ness.  "Yes,  ma'am,"  he  answered;  "isn't 
you  sick  no  mo'?  " 

The  Squire  pricked  up  his  ears.  "Well !  " 
he  thought,  "  what  next?  " 

The  next  was  law  and  order.  "  You  dis 
graceful,  triflin'  nigger !  "  said  Aunt  Clemen 
tine  ;  "  you  an'  you'  wife  ain't  goin'  to  have 
no  papah  of  divo'cement,  not  hyah  nor  no- 
wheah  else.  You'se  bofe  goin'  to  shut  you' 
blattin'  moufes  an'  tuhn  about  faw  home,  an' 
you'se  bofe  of  you  goin'  to  wuk  decent  an' 
stiddy,  like  quality,  an'  min'  you'  business 


TALES  233 

an'  keep  you'  hon'able  name.  Does  you 
onderstand?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Isaiah  Oldfield;  "but 
little  Clementine  she  won't  wuk.  I  done 
begged  an'  imploreded  her  to  stir  me  up  a  little 
corn-pone  faw  suppah,  an'  she  jes'  laid  back 
in  de  rockin'-chair  you  give  her,  an'  allowed 
dat  maybe  if  I  was  hongry  I  wouldn't  mind 
stirrin'  up  some  faw  bofe  of  us,  or  maybe 
you-all'd  be  feelin'  'nough  bettah  to  come 
ovah  an'  would  feel  like  stirrin'  one  up." 

The  woman  down  in  the  shadows  had  been 
chuckling  softly  beneath  his  speech.  "  Law, 
yes,  aunty ! "  she  said,  taking  up  the  tale ; 
"  an'  I  never  saw  nothin'  git  so  ridic'lously 
mad  as  'Zaiah  did  when  you  didn't  come.  I 
done  tole  him,  '  'Tain't  no  use  cuttin'  no 
didoes  like  dat,  'Zaiah ;  you  had  ought  to 
know  dat  aunty  is  gittin'  tolable  ole,  an' 
aftah  her  day's  wuk  is  done,  even  when  she 
ain't  sick,  she  isn't  allus  honin'  to  make  no 
sociable  calls.'  I  tole  him  you'd  been  gittin' 
kind  o'  rheumaticky  'way  long  back,  an'  de 
ole  Squiah  wukked  you  pretty  hahd  "  — 

"  Hesh  you'  big  moufe,"  said  Aunt  Clem 
entine.  "  Doesn't  you  have  any  depohtment 
at  all  to  come  hyah  hollerin'  fambly  affairs 
out  in  de  streets  by  night?  Jes'  hesh  you' 
two  moufes  an'  tuhn  about  faw  home."  Her 
voice  was  so  tense  that  its  very  decisiveness 


234  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

suggested  that  it  was  near  the  point  of  break 
ing.  The  Squire  noticed  it,  but  he  could 
not  see  how  she  leaned  out  to  them  through 
the  darkness.  "  For  de  Lawd's  sake  !  "  she 
went  on,  in  a  hoarse  whisper  which  she 
hoped  he  could  not  hear ;  "  has  you  forgot 
ten  you'  promise  to  me,  little  Clementine?" 

"  Law,  no,  aunty !  "  little  Clementine 
answered  cheerfully.  "  You  has  wukked 
faw  me,  an'  I  is  goin'  to  wuk  faw  you.  I 
doan'  nevah  fawgit  dat,  aunty,  an'  I  tries 
not  to  weah  myse'f  out  befo'  de  time.  Look 
like  'Zaiah  can't  git  dat  much  of  gratitude 
through  his  low-down  haid,  but  doan'  you 
worry  you'se'f,  aunty,  little  Clementine  she 
won't  fawgit." 

"You'd  bettah  not,"  Aunt  Clementine 
retorted  with  tremulous  gruffness.  "  You'd 
bettah  jes'  hesh  you'  moufe,  an'  tuhn  about 
for  home.  I'se  comin'  ovah  dere  soon  as  I 
gits  out  to  tell  you  a  little  of  de  trufe  about 
you'se'ves,  an'  I'll  bring  along  dat  new  green 
dress  o'  mine  to  see  if  dere  isn't  'bout  enough 
of  it  to  cut  you  out  a  basque.  I  cain't  use 
all  de  dresses  I  got,  noways,  an'  I  was  plum 
mortified  at  de  way  you  appeahed  de  las' 
Sunday  I  was  to  chu'ch  —  you  is  certainly 
de  mos'  triflin',  no-'count" —  There  was  a 
slight  pause.  No  one  knew  that  the  old 
woman's  strength  was  leaving  her,  and  that 


TALES  235 

she  was  sinking  slowly  down  upon  her  knees, 
for  her  voice  had  seemed  shaken  with  anger 
rather  than  with  weakness.  Her  bent  hands 
clutched  the  window-ledge,  and  a  soft  cry 
escaped  from  her  —  "  Little  Clementine  !  " 

The  Squire  threw  open  his  window  and 
leaned  out  to  look  at  hers.  It  was  empty, 
and  seemed  like  a  dim  black  shadow  on  the 
wall.  Down  below  he  could  see  the  indistinct 
silhouettes  of  little  Clementine  and  Isaiah. 
Something  in  that  cry  had  frightened  them, 
and  they  were  standing  hand  in  hand.  The 
Squire  turned  hastily  to  dress  himself.  There 
was  a  moment  more  of  silence,  except  that 
the  wind  kept  whispering  under  the  eaves, 
and  then,  out  of  the  darkness,  Aunt  Clemen 
tine's  voice  went  on.  She  had  gathered  her 
will  for  its  control,  but  it  was  slow  and 
sorrow-laden.  "  If  you  won't  come  up  hyah 
to  me  I  mus'  talk  out  for  dem  dat  hears  to 
hear,"  she  began,  "for,  seein'  you  has  come 
hyah  so  unseemly,  I'se  goin'  to  speak  anodder 
wud  to  you  befo'  you  goes,  an'  it  may  be  de 
las'  wud  betwixt  you  an'  me.  You  has  given 
me  you'  faithful  promise  to  take  keer  of  me 
when  I  is  old,  little  Clementine,  an'  I  wants 
to  ax  you  when  you  thinks  dat  time'll  come? 
I  been  so  proud  of  you,  little  Clementine,  I 
ain't  nevah  let  a  livin'  soul  speak  hahm  of 
you  in  dese  old  eahs.  An'  de  way  I  has 


236  AUNT  CLEMENTINE'S  OLD  DAYS 

loved  you  —  why,  nights  when  I  sits  alone  I 
sits  studyin'  about  you,  an'  right  now,  when 
I  been  layin'  hyah  sick  without  de  chance  to 
look  into  you'  face,  I  laughs  right  out  in  my 
mis'ry  like  a  fool,  'cause  you'  great,  stroppin', 
silly  laugh  keeps  a-soundin'  in  de  stillness  of 
my  heaht !  I  was  so  proud  of  you  dat  I  done 
tole  every  soul  I  knowed  how  you  was  goin' 
to  take  keer  of  me ;  an',  even  when  I  kep' 
havin'  to  send  back  money  to  you,  it  nevah 
come  into  my  haid  —  dat  it  was  because  you 
was  —  triflin'  an'  no-'count  "  —  at  the  words 
which  cut  her  heart  most  deeply  her  voice 
broke  and  ceased. 

The  Squire  stood  shivering  beside  his 
window  before  he  spoke.  Then  he  called  down 
rather  gently,  and  told  little  Clementine  to 
come  into  the  house.  He  met  her  at  the 
door  with  a  light,  and  went  with  her  up  the 
stairs.  The  lively  young  black  girl  was 
sleeping  undisturbed  on  her  pallet  in  the 
corner.  Aunt  Clementine  lay  on  the  floor 
by  the  window,  shaking  with  long-drawn, 
inarticulate  gasps.  "  Little  Clementine  has 
come  to  put  you  to  bed  and  to  take  care  of 
you,"  the  Squire  began,  but  then  he  paused. 

Great  tears  were  running  down  the  younger 
woman's  face.  She  stooped  and  lifted  her 
aunt  in  the  strong  arms  which  had  refused  so 
many  burdens.  "  I  allus  tole  you  —  aunty," 


TALES  237 

she  said  brokenly,  "  dat  I  was  goin'  to  take 
keer  of  you  when  you  was  ole." 

"  Hush,"  the  Squire  said ;  "  you  are  too 
late  !  Aunt  Clementine's  old  days  have  come 
and  gone." 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  LONG  BONE 

THERE  used  to  be  an  annual  barbecue 
in  Angel's  Grove  at  North  Pass,  and 
if  it  has  been  discontinued  something  must 
have  happened  to  Wiley  Sides. 

A  great  many  people  would  have  liked  to 
have  something  happen  to  Wiley,  for  in  the 
old  days  the  long  forest  roads  about  the 
Pass  would  scarcely  have  known  themselves 
without  his  shrieking  whoop  and  the  firing 
of  his  pistol  as  he  took  his  gyratory  home 
ward  course.  His  voice  had  a  peculiar 
quality  and  went  straight  to  the  nerves  of 
the  lonely  women  in  the  isolated  roadside 
houses,  and  made  them  more  deadly  afraid 
of  Wiley  Sides  than  of  any  other  young  ruffian 
who  ranged  the  country. 

Wiley  was  an  outlaw  by  right  and  by 
mode  of  life,  the  only  reason  that  he  was  not 
an  outlaw  in  fact  being  that  he  was  so  much 
more  the  law  than  the  law  itself  ever  dared 
to  be  that  if  they  had  not  learned  to  live  in 
tolerance  together  it  would  have  been  the 
law  and  not  Wiley  that  went  out.  Yet  Wiley 
was  not  more  wholly  bad  than  any  other 


TALES  239 

healthy  young  animal,  and  when  he  was  a 
friend  to  you  he  was  a  friend  with  any  weapon 
that  came  to  hand. 

It  was  a  habit  of  Wiley's  to  pass  many  a 
happy  night  lying  at  the  side  of  the  road  in  a 
comfortable  state  of  complete  or  semi-uncon 
sciousness,  with  only  the  trustful  spirit  within 
him  and  the  weird  shadows  which  the  moon 
threw  over  him  to  protect  him  from  the  chill 
air  and  the  dew.  But  one  night,  being  over 
come  probably  by  weariness,  he  made  a 
hasty  selection  of  the  very  middle  of  the 
road  as  a  lodging-place,  and  as  he  lay  there 
resting  peacefully,  and  neither  hearing  nor 
fearing  anything,  there  came  a  rattle  of 
wheels  and  a  beating  of  hoofs,  a  fusillade  of 
pistol-shots,  and  a  chorus  of  such  demoniac 
howling  as  only  Wiley  himself  could  have 
excelled,  and  Wiley  was  abruptly  disturbed 
by  the  crushing  of  horses'  hoofs  followed  by 
wagon-wheels  across  him.  Hoof-beats,  rat 
tling  of  wheels,  shouting  and  shooting  rushed 
on  into  silence,  and  Wiley  was  alone  again. 

"  The  boys,"  he  muttered,  as  pain  roused 
him  to  a  really  clear  and  vivid  understanding 
—  "  boys  —  wanted  me  —  to  stay  an'  —  ride 
with  'em — an'  I  wisht  —  I  had.  Lordy, 
Lord-a'mighty,  but  I  wisht  I  had !  "  He 
tried  to  turn  and  ease  himself,  but  burst  into 
uproarious  swearing  and  sank  back.  He 


240     LAW   AND   THE   LONG   BONE 

hushed  to  listen  for  a  sound  along  the  road, 
and  as  there  was  none  threw  all  his  torture 
into  long  and  awful  yells.  But  fate  had 
overtaken  him  in  the  very  loneliest  hollow  in 
the  road.  The  rank  miasma  of  the  night 
breathed  over  him ;  a  hoot-owl  tried  to  reas 
sure  him  from  a  distant  tree ;  and  that  was 
all.  The  moon,  hearing  even  more  disturb 
ance  than  was  usual,  came  peering  above  the 
treetops,  smiled  on  the  writhing  misery  at 
the  bottom  of  the  road,  passed  by  to  the 
other  side,  and  sank  again  behind  the  trees. 
There  were  more  hours  in  that  night  than  in 
all  of  Wiley's  previous  life. 

Toward  morning,  when  every  form  of  oath 
had  lost  its  freshness  for  him,  his  objurgation 
mixed  itself  with  entreaty;  but  the  stars 
blinked  down  unmoved  by  threat  or  prayer, 
and  finally  shrank  away  altogether,  as  a  band 
of  gray  clearness  broadened  up  the  sky.  In 
an  interval  of  silence  Wiley  caught  a  jiggling 
creakaty-creak  of  approaching  wheels. 

"  Help  !  Help  !  O  Lord-a'mighty,  help  !  " 
he  yelled. 

"  Git  up,  Pomp,  git  along  dah !  "  a  voice 
exhorted  in  answer,  and  the  sound  of  a  stick 
belaboring  thinly  covered  bones  came  to 
Wiley's  ear  like  music.  "  Cain't  yo'  see  dis- 
yeah  road  too  slim  to  tuhn  in?  What  yo' 
standin'  still  faw  like  dat?  Git  'long  dah, 


TALES  241 

yo'  ole  fool  boss  !  I'se  sprized  at  yo'  dumb 
ness —  dat  ain't  no  unsanctioned  sinnah 
swearin',  dat  somebody  wrastlin'  wid  de 
powah  o'  Gawd  !  Git  up  !  Git  up  !  Has  I 
raised  yo'  a  Christian  to  see  yo'  skeered  of  a 
pusson  at  prayer?  " 

Slowly  Pomp's  thin  Roman  nose  came  into 
Wiley's  range  of  vision,  stretching  above  him 
disapprovingly,  and  then  a  grizzled  negro 
head  came  between  them.  "  Is  dat  yo',  Mr. 
Wiley,  sah?"  a  compassionate  voice  asked. 
"  Why,  Mr.  Wiley,  sah,  yo'  is  bad  hu't,  an' 
I  'spec'  yo'  bettah  let  ole  Darby  take  yo' 
home  !  " 

"You're  a  mighty  white  nig" —  Wiley 
began,  but  his  voice  oozed  away  from  him  in 
weakness.  "Lift  me  keerful,"  he  choked, 
"er  some  of  the  pieces'll  come  apart." 

There  must  really  have  been  something  of 
the  power  of  God  lingering  along  that  for 
saken  roadway,  for  little  lame  old  Darby 
hoisted  Wiley's  gigantic  frame  into  his  wagon, 
the  spidery  wheels  of  the  wagon  stood  up 
under  the  unusual  weight,  and  Pomp's  antique 
skeleton  managed  to  convey  the  whole  load 
home.  More  than  this,  Darby,  with  the  help 
of  the  village  doctor,  took  tenderest  care  of 
Wiley,  who  had  neither  kith  nor  kin  to  claim 
him,  and  performed  such  miracles  of  surgery 
and  nursing  that  in  the  course  of  time  Wiley 


242 

was  abroad  again,  apparently  none  the  worse 
for  having  had  a  startling  percentage  of  his 
bones  cracked  and  broken  and  pushed  out 
of  place  by  the  energy  of  passing  friendship. 
Wiley's  reappearance  in  public  was  at  the 
annual  barbecue  which  the  negroes  held  on 
the  fourth  of  August,  in  Angel's  Grove.  It 
should  have  been  on  the  first  of  August,  as  it 
celebrated  the  freeing  of  slaves  in  Jamaica, 
but  the  date  had  been  moved  forward  to  the 
fourth  to  satisfy  the  negro  love  of  conformity 
by  emulating  the  Fourth  of  July.  White 
people  had  not  been  planned  for  originally 
in  this  festival,  but  they  came  out  of  curiosity, 
and  the  poor  whites,  relishing  the  barbaric 
smoky  abundance  of  the  barbecued  meats, 
soon  poured  in  and  made  the  holiday  their 
own.  The  negroes,  nothing  loath,  came  to 
be  more  caterers  than  feasters,  for  West 
Indian  Emancipation  was  lost  sight  of  in 
financial  success.  So  it  was  into  a  mixed 
gathering  of  tawdry  whites  and  gorgeous 
blacks  that  Wiley  sauntered  nonchalantly,  his 
torn  hat  making  a  halo  for  his  long,  broad 
face,  a  sleepy  look  in  his  dull  blue  eyes.  He 
had  been  missed,  but  few  people  knew  where 
he  had  vanished,  for  he  often  wandered  away 
from  the  Pass  for  weeks,  and  when  he  was 
gone  there  was  always  a  feeling  that  it  would 
be  unwise  to  search  for  him.  His  coming  was 


TALES  243 

soon  enough  for  questions,  and,  little  as  his 
absence  was  regretted,  he  was  sure  to  be 
hailed  with  warmth. 

"Wiley  Sides  is  back!  Hullo,  Wiley! 
What  run  off  with  you,  Wiley?"  his  old 
companions  shouted,  rallying  round  him. 
"Been  off  visiting  your  friends?  Just  in 
time  for  sport !  What  you  been  up  to  so 
long?" 

"  Been  visitin',"  said  Wiley,  "  an'  gettin' 
glued  together.  Woke  up  one  night  an' 
found  I'd  broke  in  a  lot  o'  pieces,  an'  now  I'm 
a-lookin'  for  the  fellers  what  broke  me." 

There  was  a  slight  recession  of  the  crowd, 
and  expressions  of  interest  as  to  who  could 
have  been  so  careless  and  unfortunate. 

"  I  know,  an'  that's  enough,"  Wiley 
answered  sententiously.  "  I  don't  lay  out  to 
trifle  with  'em  jus'  to-day.  My  arms  ain't 
limber  enough  jus'  yet." 

He  stretched  out  the  great,  brawny  mem 
bers,  and  the  crowd  gathered  closer  to 
examine  their  disabled  condition  with  a 
pleasant  sense  of  freedom.  "  Stiff,"  explained 
Wiley.  "  Bones  hitched  together  too  firm  in 
j'inin'.  Doc'  says  there'll  be  a  heap  o'  day 
light  burned  before  they  get  plumb  lively." 

"Ain't  you  got  no  use  of  'em,  Wiley?" 
somebody  asked,  trying  not  too  gently  to  flex 
one.  First  that  which  had  been  touched 


244     LAW   AND   THE   LONG   BONE 

and  then  the  other  swung  out  in  huge  circles 
to  the  right,  left,  above,  below.  "  No  use 
of  'em  at  all !  "  roared  Wiley,  mowing  the 
people  down  about  him.  "Stiffened  in  the 
j'ints !  No  use  of  'em  at  all !  No  use  of 
'em  at  all !  "  He  swung  them  round  his 
head  like  battle-axes  in  the  cleared  space 
about  him,  and  burst  guffawing  through  the 
crowd. 

"  Gimme  some  meat!  "  he  shouted  as  he 
reached  the  plank  tables  where  the  negroes 
were  carving. 

They  served  him  speedily,  and  negroes 
and  white  people  gathered  in  admiring  won 
der  while  he  appeased  his  convalescent  hun 
ger  by  lowering  great  dripping  slices  into 
his  mouth,  first  from  the  ox,  then  from  the 
sheep,  then  from  the  pig,  and  then  again 
from  the  ox.  It  began  to  seem  as  if  the  rest 
of  the  world  must  hurry,  or  postpone  its 
appetite  until  another  year.  Even  the  ice 
cream  stands,  the  fruit-stalls,  and  the  "Fly 
ing  Dutchman "  lost  something  of  their 
patronage  as  it  was  murmured  about  that 
Wiley  was  trying  to  eat  the  ox. 

"  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Wiley,  sah,"  said  old 
Darby,  the  head  of  the  barbecue,  hobbling 
boldly  up  and  touching  Wiley  on  the  arm, 
"  excuse  me,  but  we's  expectin'  a  delega 
tion  from  Alto,  sah,  an'  we'd  like  a  little 


TALES  245 

lef  if  dey  should  happen  to  be  hongry. 
So  I  'spec',  Mr.  Wiley,  sah,  dat  it  'bout 
time  yo'  lef  de  meat,  sah,  an'  begun,  sah, 
on  de  bone." 

"Bones?"  shouted  Wiley,  in  the  appre 
ciative  tone  of  one  who  had  come  to  respect 
them,  "bones?  Bones  is  just  what  I  need. 
If  I'd  been  eatin'  more  of  'em  I  wouldn't  ha' 
broke  so  fine.  Here,  you  nigger,  cut  me  out 
the  bigges'  bone  in  the  ox  an'  I'm  hongry 
enough  to  crunch  it." 

"  Dis-yeah  bone  de  longes',  sah,"  said  the 
grinning  carver ;  "  does  you  feel  like  tacklin' 
de  longes'  bone?" 

Wiley  sized  up  its  possibilities.  It  looked 
sufficient  to  improve  the  tone  of  his  whole 
anatomy.  "  Cut  her  out,"  he  roared,  mak 
ing  a  windmill  again  of  his  arms  and  fanning 
the  carver  with  their  rotation.  "  Le's  see 
how  quick  you  can  cut  her  out;  an'  leave 
plenty  o'  meat  on  her,  understand?" 

Poor  old  Darby  felt  a  lingering  responsi 
bility  for  Wiley.  Wiley  was  no  inconsider 
able  weight  for  a  small,  deprecating  person 
to  carry  about  either  mentally  or  physically, 
and  Darby  teetered  from  his  long  leg  to  his 
short  one  in  distress.  He  knew  that  Wiley 
would  have  no  money  left  for  other  things 
if  he  bought  so  much  meat.  He  was  sure 
he  ought  to  interfere,  and  yet,  although  his 


246  LAW  AND  THE  LONG  BONE 

protege  seemed  in  a  gentle  and  yielding  hu 
mor,  he  did  not  like  to  count  too  far  upon  a 
debt  of  gratitude.  "  Mr.  Wiley,  sah,"  he 
finally  whispered,  "  isn'  yo'  skeered  faw  yo' 
health,  sah,  if  yo'  eats  so  much?  Dem-ayah 
bones  of  yo'  own  hasn'  growed  so  powahful 
firm  faw  yo'  to  ax  'em  to  tote  round  mos'  a 
whole  ox  beside  yo'se'f,  an'  den  yo'  pockets, 
Mr.  Wiley,  sah,  dey  isn'  so  very  exuberant 
in  money,  sah." 

Wiley  brushed  the  old  man  aside  as  he 
might  have  brushed  a  fly  for  which  he 
chanced  to  have  a  kindly  regard.  "  What  I 
needs  jes'  now,"  he  explained  to  his  mentor, 
"  is  a  little  solid  eatin' ;  reckon  I  understand 
gettin'  the  mos'  for  my  money ;  "  and  draw 
ing  on  the  exchequer  of  his  pockets  to  the  full 
extent  of  his  credit  he  laid  the  result  upon 
the  table  and  remarked  that  he  was  ready 
for  the  bone.  It  was  handed  to  him,  and  he 
set  out  upon  a  round  of  the  other  attractions, 
gnawing  it  when  he  was  not  shaking  it  above 
the  heads  of  the  people  and  inducing  them 
to  treat  him  to  everything  else  there  was  for 
sale.  Merely  to  see  the  bone  at  rest  gave 
no  idea  of  its  persuasive  eloquence  in  motion 
or  of  the  generous  impulses  it  could  inspire. 
Wiley's  tall  form  towered  above  the  under 
growth  of  people,  and  his  big  voice  domi 
nated  the  grove,  shouting  genially,  "  Le's 


TALES  247 

have  some  ice-cream !  Le's  have  some 
peaches  !  Le's  have  a  pie  !  "  while  in  the  dis 
tance  old  Darby  snickered  with  appreciation, 
recognizing  the  immense  secondary  purchas 
ing  power  of  the  bone. 

Like  all  things  sublunary,  however,  Wiley's 
appetite  had  its  boundaries,  and  as  he  slowly 
approached  them  a  voice  from  the  "  Flying 
Dutchman  "  attracted  him,  calling  out,  "  This 
way,  ladies  and  gentlemen  !  Here's  the  place 
to  get  your  money  back  !  Five  cents  a  ride, 
ladies  and  gentlemen  !  Right  this  way  !  " 

Rotary  motion  produced  in  any  way  had 
always  been  attractive  to  Wiley.  "  Well,"  he 
said,  "  I'm  not  hongry  no  more,  so  what  I 
shorely  want  is  to  get  my  money  back,"  and 
he  bestrode  a  tiny  horse,  much  to  the  agita 
tion  of  a  small  boy  who  was  riding  its  com 
panion  and  seemed  likely  to  be  pushed  off  by 
Wiley's  breath. 

"  Five  cents,  sir,"  said  the  manager,  "five 
cents." 

"  All  right,"  said  Wiley,  battering  one  of 
the  horse's  fragile  legs  with  the  bone,  "  you 
can  pay  me  when  I  get  off,  on'y  don't  keep 
me  waitin'  for  my  ride.  Here  we  go  !  " 

The  whacking  of  the  bone  was  a  signal, 
and  away  they  went,  not  once  but  many 
times,  for  Wiley  saw  no  reason  to  get  off 
when  the  others  did.  He  declared  that  he 


248  LAW  AND  THE  LONG  BONE 

had  spent  more  than  five  cents,  and  he  might 
as  well  make  a  good  job  and  get  it  all  back 
at  once.  He  didn't  mind  how  long  it  took. 
Relay  after  relay  of  children  and  young 
people  filled  the  other  seats,  but  Wiley  sat 
calmy  on  his  pigmy  steed,  his  legs  dragging 
and  his  big  face  shining  serenely  on  the 
breathless  babies  and  giggling  lovers  who 
made  up  the  circle. 

In  the  middle  of  his  tenth  round  some  one 
came  running  past  with  the  cry,  "  Constable's 
arrested  old  Darby !  Constable's  come  on 
the  ground  and  arrested  old  Darby !  " 

Wiley  straightened  himself  in  consterna 
tion.  "  Stop  !  "  he  shouted  to  the  owner  of 
the  Dutchman,  and  very  willingly  the  Dutch 
man  stopped  to  let  him  off. 

"  'Rested  old  Darby  !  "  he  muttered,  as  he 
strode  across  the  grove.  "  I  reckon  somebody 
else  will  break  in  pieces  if  they  don't  let  him 
loose,"  and  the  crowd  which  had  gathered 
before  him  concluded  that  it  had  gathered  in 
the  wrong  place  when  it  saw  the  approaching 
bone. 

"  Drop  him !  "  said  Wiley,  and  the  con 
stable,  who  was  playfully  swinging  old  Darby 
to  and  fro  by  the  waistband,  felt  something 
strike  first  under  one  arm,  then  under  the 
other,  and  Darby  dodged  out  of  his  hands 
as  a  chestnut  pops  out  of  the  fire.  Wiley 


TALES  249 

reached  out  and  patted  his  shoulder  as  he 
stood  bobbing  his  head  in  gratitude.  "  You 
needn't  be  skeered  of  the  constable,"  he 
said,  "I  ain't." 

The  constable  gathered  himself  and 
glowered.  When  Wiley  interfered  in  a 
question  it  became  very  intricate.  "  Put 
down  your  weepon,  sir!"  he  cried  at  last; 
"  how  do  you  dast  to  try  to  stop  the  exe 
cution  of  the  law?" 

Wiley  offered  a  short  inverted  prayer 
against  the  law,  loudly  and  distinctly  that 
all  might  hear.  There  was  a  moment  in 
which  the  leaves  rustled  overhead.  "  What 
you  tryin'  to  stop  this  yere  Darbecue  for?" 
Wiley  added. 

A  very  angry  man  stepped  out  from  be 
hind  the  constable.  There  was  a  look  about 
him  that  seldom  confronted  Wiley  Sides. 
"  These-yere  niggers  is  a  gettin'  too  sassy," 
he  cried,  "  an'  you'd  ought  to  be  ashamed  to 
be  a-takin'  up  for  'em  !  It's  time  this  barbe 
cue  was  broke  up.  They  run  it  on  white 
men's  money,  sellin'  stuff  to  white  men,  an' 
they  won't  let  a  white  man  sell  a  durned 
thing  on  the  grounds." 

"  Did  yo'  want  so  bad  to  sell  along  of  nig 
gers,  sah?  "  asked  Darby  from  the  shelter  of 
Wiley's  power. 

"  The  old  fellow's  right,"  declared  a  pros- 


250     LAW   AND   THE   LONG   BONE 

perous-looking  white  man.  "You're  lower 
ing  yourself,  William  Tait,  to  want  to  sell  on 
their  grounds  and  then  to  get  old  Darby  ar 
rested  out  of  spite.  What  if  he  doesn't  have 
a  license  to  sell?  The  village  has  never  made 
a  point  of  it  before,  and  this  is  pure  spite. 
You're  lowering  yourself  this  way." 

"  Cain't  lowah  hisse'f,"  gurgled  a  negro 
woman's  voice. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  sell  nothin',"  the  angry 
man  retorted,  "  but  old  Darby  don't  have 
any  license  to  sell,  an'  this  sort  of  thing's  got 
to  be  stopped  —  runnin'  things  on  white 
folks'  money  an'  despisin'  white  folks'  law." 

Again  Wiley  offered  the  terse  inverted 
prayer.  All  the  people  in  the  grove  were 
struggling  forward  to  get  a  sight  of  him  as 
he  stood  with  his  long  bone  uplifted,  waiting 
for  the  next  word  from  the  constable  or 
William  Tait.  There  was  jostling  and  mur 
muring  and  a  well-resisted  effort  to  put  the 
women  and  the  children  to  the  outskirts  of 
the  crowd ;  but  the  few  well-dressed  people 
were  already  sifting  out  from  the  rest,  as 
there  seemed  no  chance  of  compromise, 
although  the  feeling  was  strongly  against 
the  enforcement  of  the  law. 

"  If  you're  going  to  arrest  him  why  don't 
you  do  it?"  a  sneering  voice  called  out. 

The  constable's  eyes  narrowed  with  rage. 


TALES  251 

"  Boys,"  he  shouted,  looking  around  him 
from  the  shadow  of  the  half-gnawed  femur, 
"  are  you  goin'  to  stand  still  and  see  the  law 
over-rid  by  a  cussed  fool  with  a  bone?  Old 
Darby  has  refused  William  Tait  permission 
to  raise  his  tintype  tent  on  these  grounds  ! 
Come  along  an'  back  me  up  !  He's  sellin' 
without  a  license  within  the  town  limits ! 
Come  along  an'  back  me  up  whilst  I  seize 
him  an'  take  him  before  the  squire !  " 

"Why  didn't  you  'rest  him  last  year?" 
taunted  another  voice. 

The  negroes  had  been  keeping  a  prudent 
silence,  rolling  their  eyes  in  suspense,  but 
they  took  up  this  query,  feeling  themselves 
growing  in  favor.  "  Yah  !  "  they  chuckled 
at  the  constable ;  "  why  didn'  yo'  'res'  him 
las'  yeah?  What  make  yo'  fo'git  so  long?" 

It  was  unwise  for  them  to  exult  so  soon, 
and  many  a  wavering  white  man  went  into 
the  balance  with  William  Tait.  There  was  a 
trampling  forward  and  a  more  distinct  rang 
ing  into  sides,  while  the  ejected  women  clam 
bered  on  to  the  unguarded  tables,  dragging 
their  babies  after  them  that  no  one  might 
miss  the  fun.  But  still  the  bone  swayed 
silently,  and  concerted  action  beneath  it  still 
hung  fire. 

The  constable  made  a  dart  to  one  side  of 
Wiley,  but  Darby  hopped  to  the  other  side, 


252     LAW   AND   THE   LONG   BONE 

and  he  found  himself  barred  out  by  the  bone. 
He  wheeled  in  the  opposite  direction ;  Darby, 
with  the  spryness  of  youth  in  his  unequal 
legs,  jumped  around  Wiley  again  as  if  play 
ing  tag,  and  the  bone  swung  over  and 
dropped  once  more  in  the  constable's  path. 
There  was  a  burst  of  laughter.  The  con 
stable  wheeled ;  Darby  jumped.  The  con 
stable  jumped  ;  Darby  dodged.  They  were 
like  parts  of  a  mechanical  toy  regulated  by 
the  swinging  bone.  Wiley  himself  began 
to  grin,  and  the  negroes  jumped  mockingly 
to  and  fro. 

The  constable  made  a  sudden  movement. 
"  Stand  aside  !  "  he  shouted,  pulling  a  revolver 
from  his  pocket ;  but  before  he  could  aim  it 
it  went  whizzing  into  the  tree-tops,  shooting 
recklessly  at  the  agitated  leaves.  There  was 
a  scuttling  apart  to  make  room  for  it  as  it 
fell,  and  a  negro  picked  it  from  the  ground, 
and  there  was  a  bubbling  up  of  broken  negro 
merriment. 

"  Oh,  you  can  laugh  !  "  screamed  William 
Tait,  and,  leaping,  he  tore  a  branch  from  a 
tree  and  rushed  in  with  it  against  Wiley. 
"  Seize  him  !  Seize  him  !  "  he  shouted. 
"  He's  defyin'  the  law !  Knock  the  bone 
out  of  his  hand ;  he's  drawed  it  on  the  law ! 
Seize  him !  Seize  him !  Crack  his  bone 
for  him  !  Knock  out  "  — 


TALES  253 

The  bone  came  crashing  through  the  at 
tacking  branch.  "  No,  you  don't !  "  shouted 
Wiley,  stretching  Tait  upon  the  ground. 
"  I've  had  a  lot  o'  bones  cracked  for  me, 
but  you  don't  crack  this !  Get  out !  Get 
out !  Get  out  o'  this  grove !  March ! 
March  !  You're  disturbin'  the  peace  !  The 
peace  cain't  be  disturbed  !  Get  out !  Get 
out !  March  !  " 

His  great,  loosened  voice  shook  the  very 
trees,  but  the  men  were  roused  at  last,  and 
cracking  orT  branches  they  beset  him  on 
every  side.  The  negroes  armed  themselves 
and  closed  in  behind  him.  There  was  shout 
ing  and  howling  and  snapping  of  twigs  and 
crashing  of  blows,  but  above  all  other  sounds 
rose  Wiley's  yell,  and  above  all  other  weap 
ons  swung  the  bone,  laying  man  after  man 
upon  the  earth  where  Wiley  had  so  often 
rested  well. 

"  Arrest  a  pore  old  darkey  for  nothin1, 
will  you?  Break  up  this  Darbecue,  will  you? 
Get  up  off  the  ground  an'  march  !  March  ! 
March  !  Don't  slip  out  to  the  sides  !  March  ! 
March  !  Hay-foot !  straw-foot !  Break  up 
the  Darbecue,  will  you?  March!" 

He  drove  them  before  him,  weaving  about 
from  right  to  left  to  warn  the  stragglers  in, 
while  the  negroes  trailed  behind  him  echoing 
his  shouts,  and  women  and  children  of  all 


254     LAW   AND   THE   LONG   BONE 

colors  ran  hither  and  thither  screaming  as 
they  brought  up  the  rear.  Resistance  broke 
into  rout,  swept  forward  by  the  bone,  and 
the  whole  mass  surged  forward  to  the  gates. 

The  negroes  began  shouting  gleefully, 
"  We've  tuhned  'em  out !  We've  tuhned  'em 
out !  "  —  and  they  dashed  ahead  to  shut  the 
gates  as  the  bone  flourished  over  the  empty 
road. 

"  Not  much  you  don't !  "  Wiley  shouted. 
"  I'm  not  done  yet !  Get  out  yoreselves  ! 
Get  out  yoreselves !  I'm  not  sidin'  with 
niggers !  Get  out  every  one  of  you  but 
Darby !  He's  the  on'y  white  man  I  know ; 
me  an'  him'll  run  this  Darbecue  !  Get  out ! 
Get  out !  March  !  Hay-foot !  straw-foot ! 
Watch  the  nigger  recruits  !  Me  an'  Darby'll 
run  this  Darbecue  !  Good-by  !  "  —  and  he 
slammed  the  gates  behind  the  last  crest 
fallen  negro  that  ducked  under  the  waving 
bone. 

"  But,  Mr.  Wiley,  sah !  "  stammered  old 
Darby  as  Wiley  rested  the  head  of  the  bone 
on  the  ground  and  leaned  upon  it,  roaring 
with  delight,  "  you  an'  me'll  have  it  powah- 
ful  peaceable  an'  ordahly  heah,  sah,  but  you 
an'  me  an'  de  ladies  cain't  possibly  disinte 
grate  all  de  ice-cream  in  the  freezahs,  sah,  not 
mentionin'  de  meat  dat  yo'  didn'  eat,  sah, 
an'  I'm  skeered  de  ladies  doesn'  have  dey 


TALES  255 

pocket-books  in  dey  pockets,  sah,  an'  it 
seem  like  we  goin'  to  have  a  little  mo'  peace 
dan  we  need  an'  not  quite  'nough  profit, 
Mr.  Wiley,  sah,  widout  de  men." 

Wiley  stopped  laughing  and  looked  about 
him  blankly.  "  Well,  I  never  studied  about 
that,"  he  admitted,  and  opening  the  gates 
he  climbed  on  to  one  of  the  gate-posts  and 
addressed  the  citizens  once  more. 

"  Any  of  you  that  feels  whiter  than  you 
did,"  he  shouted,  "  an'  that  wants  to  come 
back,  an'  to  mind  his  own  business,  an'  not 
to  mind  other  folks's,  an'  to  pay  for  what  he 
eats,  an'  not  to  disturb  the  peace  from  now 
on  to  everlastin',  is  annually  welcome  to 
this  yere  Darbecue  in  Angel's  Grove." 

The  multitude  straggled  smilingly  back 
until  only  the  two  defenders  of  the  law  were 
left  outside  the  gates,  and  the  barbecue 
ended  in  peaceful  prosperity  under  the 
shadow  and  protection  of  the  bone. 


SIX   BRAVE   SOLDIERS 

OSCAR  DILLOW  had  fainted  on  the 
battlefield  without  a  wound,  and  as 
a  consequence  the  wounds  came  afterward 
when  he  was  laid  up  with  nervous  fever, 
while  the  other  men  lay  around  him  on  the 
hay  and  passed  the  time  in  thrusting  at  his 
pride.  Sometimes  it  seemed  as  if  he  had 
none,  and  then  they  prodded  deeper,  hoping 
they  might  reach  it  somewhere  out  of  sight. 
One  day  a  little  fellow  named  Parmlee  struck 
it,  and  the  prostrate  giant  staggered  to  his 
feet. 

It  was  a  burning  day.  The  sunlight  came 
through  chinks  and  knot-holes,  and  fell  in 
shafts  of  torture  on  the  wounded  men. 
Horseflies,  the  only  original  properties  left 
in  Ferguson's  barn,  pervaded  it  officiously. 
Outside,  on  the  hill  beyond  Ferguson's  fields, 
the  shells  were  screaming.  Dillow  had 
dropped  into  one  of  those  fitful  dozes  into 
which  his  over-wrought  nerves  relaxed  be 
tween  the  outbursts  on  the  hill  when  little 
Parmlee  came  and  stood  beside  him.  Parmlee 
had  been  to  the  kitchen  tent  of  the  Sanitary 


TALES  257 

Commission,  and  had  brought  back  enough 
oyster  stew  for  each  man  in  the  barn,  and 
each  man  had  had  his  share  excepting 
Dillow.  Now  Parmlee  was  waiting  beside 
him,  with  a  dipperful  of  it  in  his  hand,  but 
a  contemptuous  smile  upon  his  face. 

"  Six  oysters  — for  a  coward,"  he  thought 
as  he  shifted  his  lame  leg  discontentedly  and 
waited. 

It  seemed  to  him  against  all  the  laws  of 
war.  He  himself  had  had  a  deep  flesh- 
wound  just  above  the  knee,  and  Dillow  had 
turned  gray  in  the  face  at  the  sight  of  it  and 
had  fallen  over  him,  nearly  shattering  all  his 
bones  and  holding  him  in  torment.  And 
here  was  Dillow,  still  lying  almost  as  gray 
and  inert  as  he  had  lain  upon  the  field. 
Parmlee  thanked  all  his  stars  for  not  having 
been  obliged  to  lie  underneath  the  big  fellow 
all  this  time ;  and  yet  his  injured  leg  almost 
refused  to  carry  oysters  to  Dillow,  although 
it  was  ready  enough  in  lending  itself  to  the 
other  men  who  were  on  their  backs.  They 
were  brave  soldiers.  It  aggravated  the 
limp  to  have  to  wait  upon  a  coward. 

As  Dillow  kept  on  dozing,  the  one  thing 
the  little  attendant  wanted  to  do  was  to  spill 
the  stew  into  his  face  and  wake  him ;  but 
some  impulse  caused  him  to  look  across  to 
the  next  bundle  of  hay  and  meet  a  pair  of 


258         SIX   BRAVE   SOLDIERS 

hungry  eyes  that  were  gazing  up  from  it. 
Beneath  the  eyes  there  yawned  a  grinning, 
hungry  mouth,  and  a  humorous  hungry 
finger  pointed  into  it.  Eyes,  mouth,  and 
finger  all  belonged  to  a  man  who  had  fought 
well.  He  had  had  one  dipperful  of  oysters, 
but  yearned  for  more.  Little  Parmlee  hesi 
tated  a  moment,  thought  of  the  instructions 
given  him  at  the  tent,  and  then,  grinning  in 
answer,  tiptoed  round  the  gigantic  sleeper 
and  fed  an  oyster  into  the  open  mouth,  which 
closed  upon  it  as  tightly  and  far  more  ecstati 
cally  than  the  shell  in  which  it  had  once 
lived. 

Parmlee  had  only  meant  to  rob  the  coward 
of  one  oyster,  but  as  soon  as  that  was  gone, 
and  he  glanced  about  again,  he  saw  four 
other  gaping  mouths  quite  near  at  hand. 
He  went  from  one  to  another  like  a  parent 
bird,  and  as  he  dropped  the  longed-for  morsel 
into  each  it  closed  upon  it  with  an  expres 
sion  of  great  bliss.  There  was  but  one 
oyster  in  the  plate  now,  and  it  looked  so 
lonely  and  so  tempting  as  it  circled  through 
the  broth  that  before  he  really  knew  he  had 
swallowed  it  himself.  Then  he  winked 
silently  at  the  five  brave  soldiers,  and  they 
winked  at  him. 

The  broth  might  possibly  have  gone 
spoonful  by  spoonful  after  the  oysters  if 


TALES  259 

Dillow  had  not  wakened  and  seen  the  dipper. 
His  listless  eyes  found  interest. 

"  Hello,  Parmlee,"  he  said,  lifting  himself 
a  little,  and  sniffing  expectantly,  "  are  you 
bringing  me  some  oyster  stew?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Parmlee,  and  he  held  the 
dipper  for  the  giant's  big,  unsteady  hands. 
He  did  not  notice  what  young  hands  they 
were.  Parmlee  was  only  eighteen,  and  too 
young  himself  to  notice  such  things,  or  to 
make  allowances,  and  he  never  guessed  that 
Dillow  was  as  young  as  he;  but  then,  no 
one  had  ever  made  allowances  for  Dillow. 
It  is  not  customary  to  make  allowances  for 
giants. 

Dillow  took  the  dish  and  searched  it  with 
his  eyes,  and  finally  looked  up  as  one  does 
who  hears  some  news  too  sad  to  credit. 

"Oyster  stew  without  any  oysters?"  he 
asked. 

"  They  give  the  oysters  to  wounded  men," 
said  the  smaller  boy  in  a  grim  voice.  "They 
think  you're  too  much  like  an  oyster 
a'ready  —  just  as  active  an'  fiery  as  an  oyster, 
an'  the  same  strength  an'  muscle  to  your 
size." 

He  laughed,  and  the  five  men  near  by 
joined  with  him  like  a  chorus,  and  then 
licked  their  lips,  where  a  pleasant  little 
memory  still  lingered. 


260          SIX   BRAVE   SOLDIERS 

Oscar  Dillovv  looked  from  one  to  another 
of  them,  and  understood.  A  spasmodic 
jerking  took  possession  of  his  hands,  so  that 
he  could  not  lift  the  spoon.  Parmlee  held 
the  dipper  up  impatiently,  and  he  swallowed 
the  broth  at  a  single  gulp,  and  gave  the  tin 
so  sudden  a  push  that  it  flew  out  of  Parmlee's 
hands.  The  little  fellow  looked  after  it  in 
surprise,  while  Dillow  struggled  to  a  sitting 
posture  and  glared  at  the  men. 

"Oh,  you — you — you!"  he  began, 
groping  wildly  after  invective  and  self-justifi 
cation  and  prophecy,  but  the  whole  wreck 
that  he  had  made  of  his  manhood,  and  the 
whole  insult  to  it,  rose  in  him,  struggling 
together  and  strangling  him,  until  his  voice 
broke  out  into  a  cry,  and  he  fell  back  upon 
his  bed  and  snatched  the  sheet  over  his  face 
to  hide  it. 

The  men  looked  from  one  to  another,  and 
laughed  aloud.  They  felt  a  little  sheepish, 
but  they  were  more  certain  than  ever  that 
the  oysters  had  been  well  placed. 

"  What  he  needs  now  is  his  shell  to  crawl 
into,"  one  said. 

"  Don't  worry,"  came  another  humorous 
growl.  "  He'll  just  drop  into  the  water  up 
Salt  river  and  grow  himself  another  shell." 

"  Plenty  o'  shells  right  here,  ready  an' 
callin'  for  him,"  chuckled  still  another  voice, 


TALES  261 

as  a  spitting,  screaming  missile  went  over  the 
barn. 

Parmlee  stooped  and  lifted  the  sheet  for  a 
final  peep  at  the  coward  who  lay  shuddering 
from  the  sound  of  the  shell  as  the  live  flesh 
shudders  from  the  knife. 

"  Hush,  boys,"  he  said,  replacing  the  sheet, 
and  turning  to  hobble  cheerily  out  as  he  had 
come.  "  He's  about  to  get  a  little  rest. 
Sh-h-h-h-h !  Oysters  is  so  active  that  they 
need  a  little  relaxation  now  an'  then." 

As  Dillow  lay  there,  trying  to  shut  his  ears 
to  the  comments  that  passed  above  him,  the 
horror  of  the  battle  on  the  hill  seemed 
suddenly  a  trifling  thing  compared  to  the 
horror  of  his  life.  He  threw  back  the  sheet 
and  sat  up.  The  man  who  had  eaten  the 
first  oyster  rose  to  his  elbow,  too,  and  looked 
at  the  big  boy  who  had  had  nothing  left  but 
broth. 

"  Gettin'  hungry  again?"  he  asked. 

"  No,"  said  Dillow,  passing  his  hand  across 
his  dizzy  head.  "  I'm  gettin'  up  to  wait 
until  you're  well  enough  for  me  to  lick." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  staggered  against 
the  wall,  white  and  quivering.  There  was  a 
small  window  over  one  of  the  mangers,  and 
he  looked  out  on  fields  full  of  confusion, 
where  the  army  had  swept  forward  to  battle, 
leaving  last  week's  wounded  in  Ferguson's 


262          SIX   BRAVE   SOLDIERS 

barn  like  a  drift-mark  on  the  beach.  But 
now,  from  under  the  cloud  on  the  hill,  a 
wave  of  men  in  blue  were  falling  back  and 
breaking  like  water  round  a  rock  wherever  a 
pursuing  shell  exploded  in  their  midst. 
Here  and  there  an  officer  galloped  about, 
beating  back  the  men  and  being  overborne, 
and  in  the  nearer  fields  the  ambulances  and 
army  wagons  tore  back  and  forth  like  a  dis 
tracted  flock,  sometimes  colliding  with  one 
another,  sometimes  passing  over  a  trampled 
swath  of  fallen  men.  Dillow  clenched  his 
hands  and  looked  on  with  his  lips  shut  tight. 
The  men  behind  him  on  the  hay  questioned 
him  eagerly,  but  he  did  not  hear.  At  last 
he  turned  to  them. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  sob  in 
his  throat  that  gave  weight  to  the  fever- 
thinned  voice,  "  boys,  I'm  going  to  lick  you, 
but  while  I  wait  for  you  to  get  strong  enough 
I'm  goin'  out  there." 

They  stared  at  him. 

"  What'll  you  do  there?  "  questioned  three 
voices  at  once.  "  You'd  be  mighty  useful  as 
a  breastwork,  if  they  was  fortifyin',  but  if 
they're  rampagin'  back  here  through  the 
field  "  — 

"  I'll  fight,"  said  Dillow.  "  The  boys 
are  falling  back.  They're  needing  fighting 
men." 


TALES  263 

"  An'  the  oyster  riz  in  his  might,  an'  sez 
he,  '  I'll  fight,  I'll  fight !  '  "  sang  the  first 
brave  soldier,  but  the  coward  made  no  retort. 

He  crept  to  the  place  where  clothes  were 
hanging  in  the  place  of  vanished  harnesses, 
and,  propping  himself  against  a  stall,  began 
to  dress.  His  head  swam,  his  heart  fluttered, 
his  hands  shook  the  garments,  and  the  men 
looked  on  with  interest  and  unbelief,  throw 
ing  in  suggestions  and  offering  their  own 
wardrobes,  —  not  being  fighting  men.  When 
he  was  half  dressed  Dillow  sat  down  on  his 
pile  of  hay,  too  spent  to  finish.  A  warning 
"  Sh-h-h-h  !  "  passed  from  lip  to  lip,  followed 
by  a  laugh,  for  they  all  thought  that  he  was 
giving  up ;  but  one  of  the  five  explained  in 
his  defence : 

"  You  don't  understand,  you  fellows.  He's 
ready  and  waitin'.  He's  goin'  to  fight  on  the 
half  shell!  " 

A  light  pattering  of  spent  bullets  came 
down  on  the  roof,  and  silence  fell  with  them. 
It  was  as  if  the  little  rattle  had  been  a  death 
summons  to  each  man.  Finally  they  looked 
at  one  another. 

"We  had  ought  to  be  moved,"  some  one 
said  soberly.  "  Wonder  where  Parmlee's 
gone  to.  He  had  ought  to  tell  somebody  to 
move  us." 

"  H'm,"  said  other  voices,  "  Parmlee's  too 


264          SIX   BRAVE   SOLDIERS 

busy  movin'  fellows  at  the  front — ain't  no 
body  to  look  out  for  us." 

Dillow  sat  on  his  pile  of  hay,  and  clinched 
his  hands  between  his  knees.  The  din  and 
turmoil  grew  about  them  as  the  firing  came 
in  hot  and  close  across  the  fields.  The 
angry  crackling  of  musketry  was  shaken  by 
long,  deep-mouthed  baying  from  the  guns, 
and  shells  screamed  oftener  about  them. 

"  My  God  !  "  said  one. 

Dillow  looked  up  slowly  and  wonderingly 
at  their  terrified  faces.  It  made  very  little 
difference  to  him  to  be  waiting  for  death 
here,  or  to  be  waiting  for  it  at  the  front,  in 
action ;  there  was  nothing  in  him  to  take  fire 
and  carry  him  beyond  the  thought  of  danger. 
Knowing  that  these  men  had  that  which  he 
lacked,  it  seemed  even  more  pitiful  to  see 
them  all  afraid.  He  felt  that  if  he  had  gone 
out  he  might  have  prevented  it,  that  out  of 
the  sheer  strength  of  his  pity  he  might  have 
led  the  forces  aside  so  that  the  firing  should 
not  fall  so  close  to  the  wounded  in  the  barn. 
He  could  see  his  own  ghost  dash  out  through 
the  shot  and  the  shell  and  bid  the  command 
ers  beat  their  forces  to  one  side,  and  he 
followed  the  apparition  with  a  breathless  rev 
erence  until  he  remembered  that  he  himself 
was  still  sitting  with  clinched  hands  upon  the 
hay. 


TALES  265 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  with  an  oath  and 
started  toward  the  door,  and  fell.  A  bomb 
had  struck  the  barn.  Its  explosion  rent  the 
air  and  filled  it  with  dust  and  shivered  wood. 
For  a  moment  Dillow  thought  that  he  him 
self  and  all  the  rest  were  dead.  Then  he 
found  that  he  could  rise  and  look  about. 
One  side  of  the  barn  was  gone,  and  the  hay 
and  dry  wood  were  bursting  out  in  fire.  The 
stronger  men  were  running  and  creeping  and 
writhing  from  their  beds,  but  there  were  some 
too  weak  to  move,  and  some  pinned  down  by 
timbers,  and  these  cried  hoarsely  after  those 
who  could  escape.  Overhead  the  flames  had 
sprung  into  the  loft ;  the  stalls  about  the  men 
were  travelled  by  little  tongues  of  fire  that 
brought  the  rats  running  and  squealing  out 
of  harm. 

Dillow  bent  and  gathered  up  one  of  the 
helpless  men,  and  took  him  out,  passing  the 
laboring,  groaning  ones  who  helped  them 
selves.  Then  he  ran  back  into  the  fire  for 
the  next.  His  knees  rocked  and  his  breath 
was  thick  with  smoke.  The  cinders  fell 
crackling  over  him  ;  the  loft  sagged  lower  and 
lower  toward  his  head.  "  Five  !  "  he  kept 
insisting  to  himself.  "There  are  five  who 
can't  move;  "  and  he  lifted  another  piteous 
form  and  dragged  it  out  into  the  grass. 

It  seemed  to  take    him   years  to  go    and 


266          SIX   BRAVE   SOLDIERS 

come ;  the  flames  ate  swiftly  through  the 
parched  barn  timbers,  and  the  roar  was  like 
the  thunder  of  cannon  in  his  ears.  Three 
times  again  he  stumbled  back  into  the  thick 
of  it;  three  times  he  came  out  staggering,  his 
great  weak  body  bending  double,  his  gaunt, 
blackened,  and  bleeding  arms  wrapped  about 
a  nerveless  form,  the  clothes  burned  off  his 
back,  the  hair  burned  on  his  head,  the  blood 
making  red  furrows  down  his  black,  distorted 
face.  A  falling  beam  had  struck  him,  but  he 
did  not  know. 

"  Five,"  he  was  breathing  in  his  short,  thick 
breaths,  "five  fightin'  men." 

He  started  once  more,  and  his  seared  flesh 
burned  the  hand  that  held  him  back. 

"Lemme  go  !  "  he  cried,  turning  fiercely  on 
the  surgeon  who  was  holding  him.  "  I  got 
to  get  'em  —  they're  fightin'  men  !  " 

"You've  got  'em,  you  idiot!"  screamed 
the  surgeon,  holding  fast.  "You've  got  'em 
all  but  the  big  coward,  and  the  devil  himself 
couldn't  pull  him  out  of  there." 

Little  Parmlee  came  hobbling  up  among 
the  witnesses.  "  That's  him  !  That's  him  !  " 
he  cried,  but  Dillow  wrenched  himself  free. 
He  had  been  crouching  double,  as  if  he  still 
carried  a  weight,  but  now  his  eyes  fell  on  the 
five  brave  soldiers  lying  smoke-stunned  on  the 
grass,  and  he  knew  that  his  task  was  done. 


TALES  267 

"  All  —  but  —  the  —  coward,' '  he  muttered 
in  a  voice  that  came  like  the  wind  through 
yellow  corn. 

A  ripple  of  life  straightened  him.  He 
stood  up  sheer  and  black  against  the  tower 
of  flame  that  rose  into  the  heavens,  flinging 
out  its  long  bright  banners  to  the  sun.  The 
exultation  flickered  out,  he  swayed  a  moment, 
and  then  little  Parmlee  and  the  surgeon 
caught  him  in  their  arms  and  laid  him  down. 

The  surgeon  looked  up  at  the  expectant 
faces. 

"  He's  gone,"  he  said  simply.  "  That  was 
a  brave  soldier." 

The  men  who  had  hats  uncovered  their 
heads  in  silence.  Far  off  the  regiment  was 
surging  like  a  wave  against  the  hill.  The 
tide  had  turned. 


MR.  WILLIE'S  WEDDING-VEIL 

THE  main  street  of  Pontomoc  lay  quiet 
and  shadowy  beneath  its  live-oaks.  The 
blinds  of  the  houses  were  closed,  and  even 
the  dogs  on  the  doorsteps  drowsed  away  the 
sultry  afternoon.  Between  the  trees,  where 
the  patches  of  sunlight  fell,  the  moisture  from 
a  morning  shower  still  shimmered  in  the  air, 
and  little  swarms  of  gnats  and  mosquitoes 
hovered  in  the  brightness.  It  was  one  of 
those  rainy  summers  when  the  southeast 
winds  bring  showers  from  the  Gulf  and  mos 
quitoes  from  the  marshes  all  in  the  same 
breath,  and  the  mercury  in  the  thermometers 
is  too  languid  to  creep  down  from  the  top 
of  the  tube  at  night,  knowing  well  that  the 
sun  will  call  it  back  again  in  the  morning. 

No  one  had  come  into  the  little  village 
store  for  hours,  and  George  Dabney,  the 
clerk,  had  tilted  back  against  the  counter 
and  was  dozing  under  a  cloud  of  tobacco 
smoke,  rousing  himself  once  in  a  while  to 
relight  his  cigar  and  to  wish  that  he  could 
keep  it  going  better  while  he  slept. 

"  George  !  "  a  woman's  voice  called  from 


TALES  269 

the  street.  "  Come  out  here  at  once, 
George  !  " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  laid  his  cigar  down 
on  the  counter,  and  went  blinking  to  the 
door.  A  carriage  stood  in  front,  and  a  well- 
dressed  middle-aged  woman  was  leaning  out 
of  it,  fanning  the  mosquitoes  from  around 
her  face.  Her  old  horse  had  dropped  his 
head  and  stood  patient  and  dejected,  only 
giving  a  great  shiver  now  and  then,  and 
switching  his  thin  old  tail. 

"  Something  I  can  do  for  you-all,  Mrs. 
Grayson?"  George  asked,  getting  hold  of 
his  clerkly  smile,  for  in  Pontomoc  it  is  not 
the  custom  for  ladies  to  come  inside  the 
store  on  any  small  errand.  George  Dabney 
takes  what  they  want  out  to  their  carriages, 
and  they  examine  it  over  the  wheels. 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep  or  dead," 
she  answered  sharply.  "  I  should  have 
gotten  out  in  a  minute  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  I've  just  been  down  to  the  express 
office  after  Miss  Juanita's  wedding-veil,  and 
I  find  it  has  missed  the  train,  so  I  want  you 
to  bring  me  out  the  finest  and  best  one  in 
the  store." 

George's  face  fell  under  a  deprecating 
gloom.  "  I'm  mighty  sorry,  but  I  don't 
have  a  wedding-veil  in  stock,"  he  said. 

"  But  you  must  have  one,  George,"  Mrs. 


2;o    MR.  WILLIE'S  WEDDING-VEIL 

Grayson  insisted,  as  if  proper  firmness  might 
create  so  slight  a  tissue  as  a  veil.  "  The 
Creoles,  you  know,"  she  added,  in  a  more 
conciliatory  tone,  "  they'll  not  be  married 
without  one,  and  so  you  have  to  keep  a 
supply  on  their  account." 

"  That's  just  the  trouble,"  the  clerk  ex 
plained.  "  I  never  saw  such  a  summer  for 
Creoles  to  get  married.  There's  been  a 
regular  run  on  the  store  for  veils,  and  the 
last  one  was  taken  yesterday.  Mr.  Willie  de 
Ferriere  sent  for  it  from  out  on  the  Point." 

"  Mr.  Willie  sent  for  your  last  wedding- 
veil?"  Mrs.  Grayson  repeated  incredulously. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  George  was  giving  a 
lame  excuse  for  not  having  any,  and  she  was 
still  half  inclined  to  require  him  to  bring  one 
out  at  once. 

George  smiled  again,  and  fanned  away  the 
mosquitoes  with  an  airier  grace.  "  I  guess 
you've  forgotten  that  he's  down  with  two 
broken  ribs  and  a  collar-bone  from  that  run 
away  last  week,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  he 
was  out  of  his  mind  at  first,  but  old  Ann  said 
the  veil  was  to  keep  the  mosquitoes  off  his 
face  and  hands.  You  know  how  these  mosqui 
toes  are  —  so  little  that  they  go  right  through 
ordinary  bars,  and  he's  too  weak  to  fight.  I 
reckon  you'll  have  to  send  over  to  Potosi  for 
a  veil." 


TALES  271 

"  But  didn't  I  tell  you  that  the  wedding  is 
to-night?"  Mrs.  Grayson  cried ;  "and  Miss 
Juanita  has  taken  the  Creole  notion  in  her 
head,  and  she  declares  she'll  not  be  married 
without  a  veil."  She  gathered  up  the  reins 
and  gave  them  a  jerk  as  a  hint  to  the  horse 
that  it  was  time  to  go.  Then  she  gave 
another  jerk  to  advise  him  that  she  was  not 
quite  ready  after  all.  "  Was  it  one  of  your 
best  veils  Mr.  Willie  bought?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  finest  one  we  ever  had  in  the  store, 
Mrs.  Grayson,"  George  declared. 

"  H — m,"  she  said  thoughtfully,  "  I'll  see 
about  it,"  and  giving  a  third  jerk  to  the  reins 
she  drove  away.  George  stood  and  looked  after 
her  until  he  saw  her  turning  down  the  road  to 
the  Point.  Then  he  went  back  into  the  store, 
and  when  he  picked  up  his  cigar  to  relight  it 
his  lips  had  yielded  to  an  unofficial  smile. 

Willie  de  Ferriere  was  lying  very  restless 
and  very  miserable  beneath  the  wedding- 
veil.  The  mosquitoes  did  not  get  under  it, 
but  neither  did  the  breeze.  In  point  of  fact 
there  was  no  breeze,  but  Mr.  Willie  did  not 
know  that,  and  he  laid  the  whole  sultriness  to 
the  veil.  He  was  tired  and  sick  and  lonely. 
On  the  whole  it  was  a  relief  to  him  when  old 
Ann  put  her  head  in  at  the  door  to  say  that 
Mrs.  Grayson  had  called  and  wished  to  speak 
to  him. 


272     MR.  WILLIE'S  WEDDING-VEIL 

"  Bring  her  in,  Ann,"  he  said  at  once. 
"  Wait  a  minute !  See  if  my  veil  is 
straight." 

"  Law,  yes,  Mr.  Willie,"  old  Ann  gurgled, 
"  yo'  veil  puhfectly  straight,  an'  yo'  do  suh- 
tainly  look  chahmin'  in  it,  honey !  I  de 
clare  if  yo'  po'  maw  could  see  yo'  she'd 
wish  mo'n  evah  dat  yo'  been  a  girl." 

Mr.  Willie  only  grunted.  He  was  six  feet 
two  inches  tall,  and  as  he  lay  stretched  out  in 
bed,  and  looked  down  toward  the  place  where 
his  toes  lifted  up  the  coverlet,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  could  measure  off  a  good  seven 
or  eight  feet  of  length,  and  he  pictured  him 
self  stalking  up  the  church  aisle  as  a  very 
majestic  bride. 

"  Go  along,  Ann,  and  show  the  madam 
in,"  he  said.  "  I  wonder  what  she  wants  to 
get  out  of  me,  now  I'm  down?" 

"  Oh,  law,  honey !  "  said  Ann,  who  had 
nursed  Mr.  Willie  in  his  babyhood,  "  don't 
yo'  want  me  to  stay  hyar  so  if  I  see  her  get- 
tin'  de  bes'  of  yo'  I  kin  jes'  shoo  her  out  like 
a  ole  hen  out'n  a  garden  bed  "  — 

"  Ann,"  Mrs.  Grayson's  voice  called  down 
the  long  straight  hall  from  the  parlor  door, 
"  have  you  forgotten  that  I  said  I  was  in  a 
hurry?  Perhaps  you'll  not  mind  finishing 
your  talk  with  Mr.  Willie  after  I  have  done 
my  errand?" 


TALES  273 

Her  voice  carried  straight  to  Mr.  Willie's 
ear.  "  Go  along,  Ann  ;  I'm  not  afraid  of  her  if 
I  am  on  my  back,"  he  said.  "  Anyhow,  I  can 
ring  for  you  if  she  gets  too  much  for  me." 

Ann  returned  a  moment  to  the  bed  to  see 
if  the  bell  was  within  reach.  "  Now,  Mr. 
Willie,  don't  you  take  no  risks,"  she  whis 
pered.  "  It  jes'  come  in  my  haid  what  she's 
aftah.  She  want  to  git  de  loan  of  yo'  po' 
maw's  guitar  so's  't  Miss  Juanita  kin  sing  to  it 
befoah  her  beaux.  Miss  Juanita's  a  good 
'nough  girl,  Mr.  Willie,  but  dat  ain't  no 
'scuse  faw  givin'  her  yo'  maw's  guitar.  Yo' 
goin'  to  have  a  wife  of  yo'  own  some  day, 
Mr.  Willie  "  —  A  rustle  of  skirts  was  heard 
along  the  hall,  and  Mr.  Willie  looked  from 
Ann  to  the  door  in  a  way  that  ordered  her 
out  against  her  will. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Willie,"  Mrs. 
Grayson  said,  "  but  I  haven't  a  moment  to 
lose,  and  Ann  seems  to  be  growing  more 
loquacious  every  year.  May  I  come  in?" 

"  Delighted  to  have  you,  Mrs.  Grayson," 
the  young  man  answered,  in  a  voice  which 
might  have  been  heartier  if  two  broken  ribs 
had  not  impeded  it. 

Mrs.  Grayson  marched  straight  up  to  the 
bed,  her  eyes  measuring  and  testing  the 
length,  quality,  and  condition  of  the  wed 
ding-veil.  "  It's  too  bad,  Mr.  Willie,"  she 


274    MR.  WILLIE'S  WEDDING-VEIL 

said.  "  You  can't  think  how  sorry  I  was  to 
hear  of  your  accident,  and  I  should  have 
come  over  at  once  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Jua- 
nita's  wedding  on  my  hands.  There's  going 
to  be  no  one  there  but  the  family,  or  of 
course  you  would  have  been  invited ;  but 
Juanita  says  if  there  isn't  anything  else  she 
will  have  a  wedding-veil,  and  it  hasn't  come, 
and  the  wedding  is  to-night.  I  should  be 
there  this  minute,  there  are  so  many  things 
to  do." 

"  But  who  —  what  —  who's  Juanita  going 
to  marry?"  Mr.  Willie  cried.  He  had  been 
too  much  surprised  even  to  ask  at  first,  but 
now  a  warlike  look  was  coming  up  through 
his  astonishment.  "  The  last  time  I  saw  her," 
he  went  on  coolly,  "  she  said  she  intended 
to  hold  out  and  do  as  she  pleased,  if  she  had 
to  fight  for  twenty  years." 

"  Mr.  Willie,"  Mrs.  Grayson  retorted,  tight 
ening  her  lips  a  little,  "  you  have  known 
Juanita  ever  since  she  was  a  baby,  and  I 
should  think  you'd  have  noticed  that  she 
never  does  anything  to  please  anybody  but 
herself.  I  implored  her  to  wait  three  months 
and  let  Mr.  Keener  come  back  from  Mexico 
for  the  wedding  "  — 

"So  it's  Keener,"  Mr.  Willie  broke  in; 
"  old  enough  to  be  her  grandfather.  I  call 
that  a  shame." 


TALES  275 

"  But  she  wouldn't  hear  of  it,"  Mrs.  Gray- 
son  was  going  on.  "  It  had  to  be  this 
very  week,  no  matter  if  it  killed  me  to  get 
ready,  and  now  the  veil  hasn't  come,  and 
there's  none  to  be  bought  in  the  village,  and 
that  brings  me  straight  to  my  errand.  I'm 
obliged  to  buy,  borrow,  or  beg  away  your 
veil." 

Mr.  Willie  cle  Ferriere,  old  playfellow  and 
life-long  friend  of  Juanita  Grayson,  looked 
contemplatively  at  his  far-away  toes  for  a 
moment,  and  then  turned  a  questioning  gaze 
on  Mrs.  Grayson.  "  Which  way  will  you 
try  first  —  buying,  borrowing,  or  begging?" 
he  inquired. 

Mrs.  Grayson  opened  her  mouth.  "  Willie 
de  Ferriere  !  "  she  gasped. 

He  continued  to  look  up  at  her  defiantly 
until  a  deep  flush  rose  in  her  cheeks  and 
passed  up  to  the  roots  of  her  heavy  dark 
hair.  She  came  a  little  nearer,  examining 
the  way  in  which  the  veil  was  fastened  to  the 
pillow  above  Mr.  Willie's  head.  It  had  been 
his  fancy  to  have  some  old  pearl  pins  of  his 
mother's  used  for  the  purpose,  and  the  effect 
was  very  bridal.  "  I  don't  know  why  you 
should  speak  to  me  like  that,"  she  said. 
"  Of  course  it's  unusual  to  ask  to  borrow  a 
wedding-veil,  but  then  it  is  still  more  unusual 
for  a  young  man  to  appropriate  the  last  one 


2;6    MR.  WILLIE'S  WEDDING-VEIL 

from  the  store,  and  you  are  certainly  such 
an  old  friend  of  the  family  that  you'll  not 
object  to  my  taking  it."  She  lifted  up  the 
mosquito-bar  which  hung  around  the  bed  and 
Mr.  Willie  and  the  veil,  and  began  unfasten 
ing  the  clasp  of  one  of  the  pins.  A  slight 
smile  came  upon  her  set  lips  without  seem 
ing  to  relax  them.  "  I'm  sorry  I  have  to  be 
in  such  a  hurry,"  she  went  on,  "  but  when  I 
am  gone  you  can  decide  at  your  leisure 
whether  I  have  bought,  borrowed,  or  begged 
it." 

Mr.  Willie's  hand  was  on  the  bell.  "  Wait 
a  moment,"  he  said.  "  If  I  ring  for  Ann 
she  will  come  in  and  defend  me,  and  it  might 
not  be  pleasant,  but  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
If  Juanita  is  willing  to  leave  me  to  be  eaten 
up  alive  while  she  is  getting  married  under 
my  veil  I'll  let  her  have  it,  but  I  want  her 
own  word  for  it.  If  you  will  go  home  and 
send  her  over  here  to  get  the  veil  herself"  — 

"  But  it's  too  late,"  Mrs.  Grayson  protested, 
her  fingers  still  trembling  on  the  pin.  "  It 
all  has  to  be  over  in  time  for  them  to  start 
for  Mexico  on  the  half-past  ten  train." 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  said  Mr.  Willie;  "it's 
only  a  quarter  to  five,  and  you  can  hold  off 
the  ceremony  until  nine  o'clock.  Besides,  if 
Juanita  is  going  to  get  married  and  go  off  to 
Mexico  I'll  not  have  any  other  chance  to  say 


TALES  277 

good-by ;  and  Juanita  and  I  are  very  old 
friends,  you  know.  But  do  just  as  you 
please.  I  shall  not  give  up  my  wedding- 
veil  into  any  hands  but  hers." 

Mrs.  Grayson  hesitated.  There  was  silence 
for  a  moment,  and  then  old  Ann's  voice  spoke 
at  the  door  although  there  had  been  no  foot 
steps  in  the  hall.  "  Didn't  I  heah  yo'  ring 
faw  me,  Mr.  Willie?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  I  didn't  ring,  Ann,"  Mr.  Willie  an 
swered,  "  but  I  was  thinking  of  it.  I'd  like 
you  to  open  the  gate  for  Mrs.  Grayson.  She 
is  starting  home." 

"  All  right,  Mr.  Willie,"  Ann  said.  And 
this  time  they  could  distinctly  hear  her 
shuffling  footsteps  in  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Grayson  turned  to  go.  "  I  shall  re 
member  your  kindness,  Mr.  Willie,"  she  said 
at  the  door,  "  but  I  shall  send  Juanita  over 
for  the  veil." 

"  That  is,  if  Juanita  will  come,"  Mr.  Willie 
muttered  when  he  was  alone;  "  and  I  hope 
she'll  come.  I  don't  believe  she  wants  to 
marry  and  go  away  from  Pontomoc  without 
bidding  me  good-by.  Poor  little  girl !  "  he 
mused ;  "  she's  been  driven  to  the  wall  at 
last,  and  I've  been  laid  up  here  and  didn't 
know.  I  wish" —  His  thoughts  hastened 
on,  keeping  the  heat  from  oppressing  him. 
His  eyes  closed  and  he  smiled.  Then  the 


278     MR.  WILLIE'S  WEDDING-VEIL 

faint  dream  of  a  breeze  stole  into  the  room 
and  stirred  the  wedding-veil  against  his  face. 
He  was  very  weak  from  his  accident,  and 
for  some  reason  its  touch  was  unspeakably 
pathetic  to  him,  and  he  thought  of  how  Jua- 
nita  would  feel  when  she  put  it  on  and  it 
stirred  against  her  face  like  that.  "  I  don't 
see  how  she  dares  do  it,"  he  thought  on. 
"  If  I  were  a  girl  and  realized  that  in  a  few 
hours  I  should  pledge  away  my  whole  life  to 
come,  and  if  it  were  only  for  the  sake  of 
peace  "  He  looked  through  the  mist  of 
the  veil  at  the  blue  waters  of  Pontomoc  bay 
glinting  outside  in  the  returning  breeze,  and 
winding  away  into  a  hidden  land  of  promise 
like  a  life  still  free. 

The  shadows  lengthened  across  the  vista 
from  his  window,  and  the  little  waves  upon 
the  bay  danced  up  into  a  golden  light  and 
caught  it  on  their  crests.  Then  the  breeze 
died,  and  there  was  not  the  slightest  sound  in 
all  the  world.  The  time  seemed  very  long. 
Mr.  Willie  felt  tired  again  and  restless,  and 
he  would  have  given  almost  anything  he 
owned  if  it  would  have  brought  him  strength 
to  rise  upon  his  elbow  and  look  around  the 
window-casing  down  the  road.  He  began  to 
think  that  Juanita  had  refused  to  come.  Jua- 
nita  could  be  inexorably  firm  when  she 
thought  it  worth  while  to  assert  herself,  but 


TALES  279 

he  felt  a  little  hurt  that  even  if  she  did  not 
want  his  veil  she  had  not  taken  it  as  an 
excuse  to  call  on  him  and  say  good-by. 
"  She  might  have  known  I  would  understand," 
he  thought;  "but  then,  I  suppose  she  has 
her  hands  full  getting  ready  for  to-night." 
Even  old  Ann  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him. 
It  was  very  strange  that  she  did  not  come  to 
see  if  he  wished  to  have  his  pillows  turned, 
or  to  bring  him  something  cool  to  drink.  It 
was  not  like  her  to  wait  until  he  rang  the 
bell.  "  After  a  little  the  coast  train  will  be 
coming  in,  and  Keener  will  be  on  it,"  he 
thought,  "  and  then  my  last  chance  will  be 
gone." 

The  little  gold-topped  waves  had  sunk  into 
glittering  pink  and  azure  reaches,  over  which 
the  sun  hung  low.  Somewhere  out  of  sight 
a  schooner,  knowing  herself  becalmed,  threw 
out  her  anchor  and  let  her  sails  come  rattling 
down.  Mr.  Willie  put  his  hand  upon  the 
bell,  and  then,  remembering  that  he  needed 
nothing,  did  not  ring,  but  called  in  a  very 
low  voice,  "  Ann  !  " 

There  was  no  answer,  and  in  the  silence  he 
could  hear  the  coast  train  throbbing  far  be 
yond  the  bay.  Then  it  came  rumbling  across 
the  trestle,  with  a  shriek  for  the  drawbridge, 
and  another  shriek  for  the  village  lying  inland 
from  the  Point,  and  Mr.  Willie  knew  that  in 


280    MR.  WILLIE'S  WEDDING-VEIL 

two  hours  Juanita  Grayson  would  be  married 
to  a  man  she  did  not  love.  The  moments 
passed  aimlessly  above  him  while  he  won 
dered  why  it  was  that  he  could  know  so  many 
things  to-day  that  he  had  never  dreamed  in 
all  the  days  before.  A  red  haze  filled  the 
distant  west,  and  the  sun  sank  slowly  through 
it  to  some  mystery  beyond.  Mr.  Willie 
watched  until  it  seemed  too  much  like  watch 
ing  the  death  of  some  one  very  dear.  He 
closed  his  eyes  and  the  warm  tears  came  up 
beneath  the  lids,  and  his  hand'  wound  itself 
in  the  soft  tissue  of  the  veil. 

There  was  a  creak  of  wheels  along  the 
shell  drive  from  the  gate.  Mr.  Willie's  eyes 
flew  open  and  his  hand  shook  the  bell. 
"  Ann  !  "  he  called  ;  "  somebody's  coming, 
Ann." 

Ann  ran  in,  looking  excited.  "  De  young 
lady's  aftah  yo'  veil,  suah  'nough,"  she  an 
nounced  ;  "  but  I'll  stay  right  handy,  so's  't  if 
you  want  me  "  — 

"  You  go  to  the  kitchen,"  Mr.  Willie  said, 
ungratefully;  "  but  show  Miss  Juanita  in  first, 
please." 

Old  Ann  shook  her  head.  "  Miss  Juanita's 
a  good  'nough  girl,"  she  grumbled,  "  but 
dat  ain't  no  'scuse  "  —  Her  voice  died  away 
along  the  hall,  and  the  flutter  of  Juanita's 
coming  took  its  place.  She  entered  and 


TALES  281 

walked  swiftly  up  to  him  with  a  bright  defi 
ance  in  her  eyes. 

"  It's  all  done  with,"  she  said.  "  So  you 
may  keep  your  veil." 

Mr.  Willie  tried  to  smile.  "  Are  you  married 
so  early,  Juanita?  "  he  asked. 

"  Married?  "  she  said,  standing  very  white 
and  proud  before  him.  "  No,  I'm  not  married. 
Mr.  Keener  did  not  come." 

"  And  hasn't  he  sent  you  any  word?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  a  letter  on  the  coast  train  !  He 
did  not  telegraph  because  he  wished  to  go 
into  more  detail.  You  know  that  this  was 
the  very  last  day  possible  for  him  to  start  to 
Mexico  to  take  the  place  that's  offered  him, 
and  he  had  to  go  to  the  city  to  finish  his  prep 
arations  ;  but  there  was  more  to  be  done  than 
he  thought,  and  he  didn't  get  through.  Oh, 
Willie,  I'm  so  glad  !  " 

"  But  I  don't  understand,"  began  Mr.  Willie. 

"  Of  course  you  don't,"  the  girl  broke  in 
with  a  sharp  voice.  "  You're  not  such  a  good 
business  man  as  he  is,  and  you  don't  under 
stand  how  necessary  it  is  to  get  all  tlirough. 
Neither  do  I  understand,  nor  even  mamma. 
I  left  her  talking  it  over  and  trying  to.  I  —  I 
told  her  I  must  come  and  explain  why  I  didn't 
want  the  veil.  Willie," — her  voice  was 
almost  a  sob,  —  "  I  shall  have  to  hear  her  talk 
about  it  all  my  life." 


282     MR.  WILLIE'S  WEDDING-VEIL 

Mr.  Willie  clinched  his  hands.  "  I  must 
get  the  straight  of  this,"  he  said.  "  Does  the 
fellow  want  to  break  off  the  marriage,  or  only 
to  postpone  it?" 

"  Ho  !  "  she  cried,  "  break  it  off?  You 
don't  know  him,  Willie.  He's  in  love  with 
me,  don't  you  understand?  All  that  he  wants 
is  a  little  time  to  arrange  business,  and  then 
when  everything  is  in  running  order  he  will 
come.  He  expects  to  find  me  waiting  for 
him,  like  a  package  left  until  called  for;  but 
that  is  his  mistake.  Do  you  blame  me, 
Willie?  I'll  not  marry  him  when  he  comes 
back.  I  gave  up  to  mamma  only  on  con 
dition  of  its  being  over  and  done  with,  and 
because  he  was  going  far  away.  I  knew  he 
would  never  reproach  me  and  make  me  un 
happy  as  she  does  ;  it  seems  to  have  been  so 
much  trouble  to  her  to  bring  me  into  the  world 
and  take  care  of  me,  and  she  always  forgets 
that  I  did  not  ask  to  come.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  should  be  almost  content  just  to  be 
loved  without  trying  to  love  him,  because  he 
would  not  always  be  telling  me  that  I  ought 
to  persuade  some  other  person  to  take  care 
of  me,  but  now "  —  She  dropped  on  her 
knees  beside  the  bed  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands.  "  Oh,  Willie,  Willie,"  she  sobbed, 
"  I  shall  not  let  any  one  know  that  I  care, 
excepting  you  !  You  are  always  so  good  to 
me,  Willie,  and  I  had  to  come  away  from 


TALES  283 

mamma  just  now  or  I  should  have  done  some 
thing,  I  don't  know  what,  and  I  was  so  glad 
there  was  an  excuse  to  get  away." 

Mr.  Willie  let  his  hand  rest  upon  her 
quivering  shoulder  as  tenderly  as  the  sunset 
color  lingered  on  her  hair.  "  Juanita,  do  you 
mind  if  I  tell  you  something?"  he  asked. 

She  lifted  a  wild,  bright  face  to  him. 
"  Mind  ?"  she  answered,  with  a  halting  breath  ; 
"  you  may  tell  me  anything  you  please.  Did  I 
say  that  I  cared  ?  I  don't  care  about  anything 
in  the  world  now.  They  have  had  the  chance 
I  gave  them,  and  I  am  happy  to  be  free." 

The  ring  in  her  voice  seemed  to  put  him  far 
away  from  her.  His  hand  trembled  a  little  on 
her  shoulder  and  withdrew.  "  I  wish  I  could 
have  kept  all  this  from  happening,"  he  said. 

"  What  could  you  have  done?  "  she  asked. 

The  color  of  the  west  had  fallen  on  her 
cheeks  and  in  her  eyes.  He  gazed  at  her, 
and  his  voice  was  only  a  whisper  through  the 
hush.  "Perhaps  I  could  have  taught  you 
how  to  love  me,  dear,"  he  said. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh.  "  And  after  that?  " 
she  asked. 

"After  that?  "  he  repeated,  wondering,  for 
the  brightness  deepened  on  her  face  instead 
of  fading  with  the  clouds. 

"  Because,"  she  said  softly,  "  you  taught 
me  that  a  long  time  ago,  Willie.  That  was 
what  made  me  so  happy  to  be  free." 


284    MR.  WILLIE'S  WEDDING-VEIL 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her,  and  she 
clasped  it  close  in  hers.  The  twilight  was  so 
still  that  they  could  hear  the  soft  incoming  of 
the  tide. 

There  came  a  sound  of  shuffling  footsteps 
in  the  hall.  "  De  young  lady's  hoss  is  gittin' 
tol'able  skittish  'count  of  all  dese  skeeters, 
Mr.  Willie,  suh,"  a  voice  said  at  the  door. 
,  "  All  right,  Ann ;  I'm  coming,"  Juanita 
called.  She  bent  above  Mr.  Willie  for  a 
moment,  and  went  out  past  old  Ann,  who 
eyed  her  sharply,  looking  for  the  veil.  A 
moment  later  the  old  horse  plodded  off  along 
the  drive,  and  Mr.  Willie  could  hear  the 
measured  thud  of  his  hoofs  long  after  they 
had  passed  the  gate  and  old  Ann  had  shut  it 
with  a  clang. 

The  old  woman  came  back  presently,  and 
she  looked  at  Mr.  Willie  with  affection  as  she 
turned  his  pillows  for  him  and  rearranged  his 
veil. 

"  Yo'  mighty  right  not  to  let  go  of  it,"  she 
said.  "  Miss  Juanita's  a  good  'nough  girl, 
but  dat  ain't  no  'scuse  faw  givin'  her  yo' 
weddin'-veil.  Yo'  goin'  to  want  a  wife  of  yo' 
own  some  day,  Mr.  Willie,  an'  dat  veil'll 
come  in  mighty  handy  to  save  her  from 
gittin'  one,  if  yo'  keeps  it  nice." 

And  Mr.  Willie  smiled  and  said,  "  Ann, 
that  is  very  true." 


Date  Due 


CAT.    NO.    24    161 


A     000542319     9 


